


Bring Us Emrys

by enviropony



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Magic Revealed, Multi, Partner Betrayal, Violence, ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/pseuds/enviropony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has butchered five of Camelot's best not two leagues from the castle gates, and left a blunt note: 'Bring us Emrys.' Already struggling with the sudden distance between Arthur and himself, even as Arthur tentatively explores the idea that all magic is not evil, Merlin must find the killers before anyone else is hurt. With Elyan at his side, Merlin rides to meet the Catha priest Alator, to invite Gaius' kidnapper to Camelot as an ally. Upon their return, all manner of magic users converge on the city, and Merlin quickly finds himself the unspoken leader of a rag-tag magical encampment, when all he wants is for things to go back to the way they used to be: when Gwen's smiles were genuine, Aithusa adored him, and Arthur's love wasn't so utterly, absolutely out of reach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Us Emrys

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by my ever-patient friend Cath, after I wrote and rewrote and rewrote the ending.
> 
> Based on this KMM prompt: <http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/18397.html?thread=17647837#t17647837>
> 
> The awesome cover art, icons and border are by **jennybliss**. See them all at [Blissful Things](http://blissfulthings.livejournal.com/7055.html)!

Merlin nearly gags when he hears it - the southbound patrol, all found dead this morning, barely two leagues from the castle. Gwaine had been with them...

Except that he hadn’t. He’d traded places with Sir Brevard for leadership of the westbound group so he could spend the time chatting up Sir Wyatt’s squire. Merlin feels his knees go weak when Elyan tells him this, his own posture stiff. Merlin leans back against the pillar with a sigh of guilty relief, and together they watch Arthur receive the news that five of Camelot’s men have been butchered a two hours’ walk from the city walls. 

It doesn’t do Merlin any good to be propped up where he’s standing, because when he hears what the note says - the note that a messenger from Nemeth had found pinned to Brevard’s body with a crude wooden stake - he slides down the cold stone and lands in an ungainly sprawl on the white marble floor. 

Arthur doesn’t turn to berate him. Arthur doesn’t even notice.

“Who the bloody hell is Emrys?” the king is demanding, raking the knights and councilors arrayed before him with a vicious glare. “Has anyone here heard the name before?”

Merlin manages to stand again, Elyan’s arm under his elbow, as Gaius says, “Emrys is the name of a sorcerer, my lord.” Arthrur’s black gaze swings his way instantly, but Gaius doesn’t react. “Agravaine inquired after him nearly a year ago.”

“Agravaine?” Arthur echoes icily. “Why?”

“I don’t know, sire,” Gaius replies gravely. “He only asked if I’d ever heard the name. I told him I had not.”

Arthur’s watching Gaius with something that Merlin recognizes as veiled suspicion. Ever since the events surrounding Gaius’ kidnapping, Arthur has treated the Court Physician with both greater deference and greater caution. He knows now, Merlin’s sure, that Gaius is not telling him everything.

“Very well,” Arthur says, and turns to the council at large. “The council is adjourned for the day. Sir Leon, Sir Dwight, attend me.” He murmurs low orders to them while the lords of the council file in twos and threes out the door. The messenger and his escort remain, as do the rest of the attendant knights - Elyan, Wyatt, Borgaine and DeLors - and the chamber guard. Gaius also stays, sending only one quick, worried glance at Merlin; what he sees is obviously not reassuring, judging by the severity of his frown.

Leon, dismissed, snags Wyatt and Brogaine as he leaves - to ride out for the bodies of the patrol, Merlin thinks - and Dwight, commander of the castle guard, takes DeLors with him when he goes. 

“Thank you for bringing us this news, bitter though it is,” Arthur says to the messenger. “The guards will show you to guest chambers. I’m afraid the tidings you bear must wait until tomorrow.”

“Of course, sire,” the messenger says with a bow, and follows his escort out the door.

“Gaius, I would speak with you further,” Arthur says, glancing at Merlin and Elyan. “Merlin, I know for a fact that you have somewhere to be.” Maybe he thinks he's protecting Merlin by keeping him away from the discussion.

“Y-yes, sire,” Merlin stammers, and pushes away from the pillar. He’s a little surprised that he doesn’t fall on his face; his whole body feels like so much jelly.

Arthur frowns. “Elyan, please escort my manservant to the armory. Make sure he doesn’t fall down the stairs; he looks like death warmed over.” 

“Of course, sire,” Elyan says, and nudges Merlin forward. Merlin stumbles a little at the contact, but rights himself and makes it out of the council chamber with something that he hopes approaches dignity. Elyan, apparently taking Arthur’s command seriously, follows him all the way down to the armory, where Arthur’s practice sword and a shirt of plated mail - an experiment of Elyan’s suggestion - lie waiting for attention.

Merlin, in desperate need of a distraction, hefts the hauberk and gestures at Elyan with it. “Where’d you see this design? It’s good for full-on blows, but it seems to me like a sword could slide right in between the plates on an upthrust.”

Elyan blinks. “That’s perceptive,” he says. “We were thinking about issuing it to some of the light archers. It’s cheaper and faster to make than chainmail, and they tend not to go into close combat.” 

“Just because I’m not a knight doesn’t mean I haven’t learned anything, standing around and watching you all beat each other senseless,” Merlin says, shrugging. He fidgets, trying to find some damage in the plated armor, but everything’s blurry. He hopes he’s not crying again. He’d thought he’d gotten over doing that at the drop of a hat, finally.

Elyan takes the hauberk from Merlin and examines it with an expert eye. “It didn’t stand up as well as I’d hoped,” he says. “Percival was really laying it on, today.” The mail clatters as he sets it on the table. 

“Not everyone’s Percival,” Merlin says. _Arthur will be very sore tonight,_ he thinks. He picks up the sword, meaning to find a whetstone, but Elyan’s in his space suddenly, looking shrewd and concerned and like he knows exactly what’s bothering Merlin.

“So, ‘Bring us Emrys,’” he says, watching Merlin intently. “That’s pretty cryptic, isn’t it? No directions, no explanation, not even a signature. Hell of a way to leave a message, too.”

Merlin shrugs again, wishing he could take a step back, but he’s right up against the table and the wall adjacent; there’s nowhere to go. “They wanted to get Arthur’s attention, I suppose. I doubt they realize how badly they’ve enraged him.” Arthur will turn the kingdom upside down to find the attackers; of that, Merlin has no doubt.

Elyan frowns, seems to notice how close he’s standing, and backs off a bit. He looks away from Merlin, then back again. “I remember,” he begins, then pauses. “I remember what I did when that Druid boy possessed me. I remember what he said to me.”

Merlin has a sick feeling that he knows exactly where this is going. He finds himself leaning against the stonework for support once more as Elyan says, “When he talked about you, he called you Emrys.”

They stare at each other for long moments, tense and unsure, until Merlin sighs, and asks, “Why didn’t you tell Arthur?” Arguably, Elyan has committed treason by not speaking out.

Elyan’s eyes widen in subtle challenge. “Why didn’t you?” 

“Because it’s safer for Camelot if nobody knows I’m Emrys,” Merlin says, letting his head thump against the wall. The method of _his_ treason, of course, is clearly written into law.

“It wasn’t safer for Sir Brevard’s patrol,” Elyan grinds out, anger at the deaths of his comrades lacing every word. 

“Apparently not,” Merlin concedes sadly. “I wasn’t expecting an attack like this, though.”

“But you were expecting one?” Elyan presses. “From whom?”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, “but this isn’t like her. She’d let us know she did it.”

Elyan frowns and shifts unhappily. “So she’s still alive?” He knows - everyone knows now - that Morgana has a grudge against Gwen. 

Merlin nods. Oh, yes, Morgana is alive, and Merlin’s still resentful of Kilgharrah letting Aithusa loose on his own, to trip over dying priestesses in the woods. He’d wondered, at first, if Kilgharrah’s unique foresight had induced the lapse, but the old dragon had been so furious that Merlin cannot doubt his intentions. If Kilgharrah ever stumbles across Morgana, he’ll probably try to kill her himself. 

Elyan’s watching Merlin with a mix of caution and curiosity on his face. “So, are you really a sorcerer? The boy said you were, and I remember you blowing open the doors to the council chamber, but... I thought I’d imagined that bit, at first.”

“What?” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. “I’m so clumsy and adorably guileless that I can’t possibly be dangerous?” 

Elyan flinches at the words ‘adorably guileless.’ “You, ah, heard that bit, did you?”

Merlin snorts, an echo of that particular night’s bitterness rising. “‘Ears like jug-handles,'” he mimics in Lady Tellamaine’s nasal whine. “I spent most of the feast serving,” he reminds Elyan. “I heard a lot.” Still, he does appreciate his friends, so he has to add, “Thanks for defending me there, anyway.”

Elyan, his status as a Knight of Camelot raised even further with his sister's coronation, had spent half of the wedding feast with the knights, and half at or near the high table, dining with the newly married couple and hoping to catch the attentions of the Lady Tellamaine, daughter of one of Arthur’s councilors. Merlin, for his part, had spent a good deal of time passing around food and wine, though it was little to do with Arthur’s orders and mostly to stave off his own melancholy. He was happy for Arthur, ecstatic for Gwen, but the wedding was the final nail in the coffin of his own feelings, and he’d found it difficult to lay them to rest. He was finding it difficult, still.

Elyan’s mouth twists ruefully. “I should have said more,” he tells Merlin. “That woman - I can’t believe I was interested in her.” He shakes his head in disgust, and Merlin nods knowingly. Camelot may be quite the progressive land now that Arthur is king, but the old nobility are set in their ways.

And while Camelot it progressive in some ways, in others it remains stubbornly backward.

“So,” Merlin asks with poorly-feigned disinterest, “are you going to turn me in?”

Elyan looks offended. “What? No!” The vehemence of his reply is startling.

“Why not?” Merlin asks, surprising himself with how confused he sounds. What does it say about him that he expects rejection at every turn?

Elyan’s offended look doesn’t waver. “I may have let my lust get the better of me, but I do not betray my friends. I wouldn’t be here if not for you - several times over. You’re a good and faithful friend to me, to my sister, to all of us, and the more loyal to Arthur than anyone.” Merlin blushes and tries to shrug off the sentiment, even though it warms him to his core, but Elyan isn’t finished. “Whatever secrets you have, I know you will not betray us. You’ve had every chance for that. It isn’t in you.” 

“I...” Merlin trails off, and has to swallow the lump in his throat before he rasps, “Thanks.” He’s accepted that he must live in the shadows, and it’s actually a comfort after all this time, knowing that his every mistake isn’t up for public scrutiny, like Arthur’s. He’s not sure he could handle everyone else’s recriminations on top of his own. Still, hearing someone acknowledge him will never lose its luster. “It’s nice to hear that, now and then.”

Elyan smiles sadly. “The truth should be heard often.” He sounds a lot like Lancelot right then, and Merlin has to rub one hand across his eyes before he straightens and pushes off the wall.

“So,” he says, putting down the sword he’s been holding all the while, “how do we find out who’s after me, good Sir Knight?”

Elyan looks pensive. “Will Gaius know more?”

“Gaius will tell me what he told Arthur,” Merlin says, acknowledging the old physician’s complicity, “but as for who’s after me, his guess will probably be as good as mine.”

They wait in the armory until they guess Arthur must be done with Gaius, Merlin sharpening the sword and Elyan working the dents and kinks out of the hauberk. Their conversation is awkward but friendly, mostly about the morning's training session. When they finally decide to leave, Elyan takes the plate mail with him. "There are too many links missing. I'll take it to the armourer to repair."

Gaius is in his chambers, seated at one of the long tables, paging through an old book. He looks concerned at seeing Merlin and Elyan together.

"Merlin, you're back early. And Sir Elyan, what can I help you with?" Gaius is always formal with people he wants to go away just now, please. Merlin wonders how many of the knights have caught on.

"What are you reading?" he asks, sitting across from Gaius, motioning Elyan down next to him. Elyan slides onto the bench and drops the hauberk at his feet.

"Something about the description of the attack caught my attention," Gaius says. "I'm trying to see if I can find a certain reference."

"What was it, exactly?" Elyan asks.

Gaius gives him what Merlin calls the Subliminal Stink-Eye: polite, but strongly suggesting that he explain himself this instant. "Why do you ask, Sir Elyan? Did you notice something familiar as well?"

Elyan nods. "Yes."

Gaius straightens. "Continue, please."

Elyan looks at Merlin, as if asking permission; Merlin decides he'd better be the one to say it. Gaius has been through a lot this year. No sense giving him any more frights than necessary. "He's heard the name Emrys before."

"Oh?" Gaius keeps a straight face very well on most occasions. This is no exception. "And where did you run across that name, Elyan?" Merlin counts it a good sign that he's dropped the 'sir.'

"The Druid boy," Merlin says when it's clear Elyan's willing to be led on this.

Gaius looks at them both blankly. "What Druid boy?"

"The Druid boy that possessed him," Merlin says.

Gaius closes the book. "Really?" he asks, looking cautious, and sounding as if Elyan and Merlin had better both tread carefully. "And what did the Druid boy say, exactly?"

Elyan exchanges another glance with Merlin, then turns to Gaius and tips his head in Merlin's direction. "Said he's it. Him. Whatever." 

Gaius sags, as if he'd known what Elyan was going to say. "What else did he tell you?" he asks.

"Just what you told the king," Elyan says. "And that he's powerful, but wouldn't hurt me." He smiles at Merlin. "But I knew that already." 

"Well," Gaius says after a moment, "what do you plan to do now?"

Elyan scowls, and huffs, "You think I'm going to turn him in, too, don't you? I'm so glad to have your trust, Gaius." 

"Forgive me, Elyan," Gaius pleads, raising a placating hand. "I've spent so long worrying about Merlin that I can't help but jump to the worst conclusion. I know you to be a kind and caring friend."

Elyan's gaze drops briefly to the table, as if he's embarrassed, and he says, "Thank you, Gaius."

"So," Merlin interjects before the silence can get awkward, "any ideas, Gaius? Can we help you look for something?"

"Not at the moment, my boy," Gaius says, patting at the book before him. "This is the only volume I have on the subject."

"What exactly caught your attention?" Elyan asks. "Did Arthur tell you something that wasn't heard at council?"

"No, he was given no more than the rest of us," Gaius replies. "It was the way the note was pinned to the body that gave me pause. There are several ancient clans and religious orders scattered across the five kingdoms that used wooden stakes in a similar manner - either in ceremonial sacrifices, or simply to leave messages . Though..." he pauses and runs a finger across one of the pages in the book. "Ah. In those cases, the stake itself was usually the message, being carved with runes or symbols." He looks up. "Nothing here seems to fit the present situation. I really won't know more until we can examine the bodies."

Merlin nods grimly. He's not looking forward to that. Though he hadn't known any of the men on that particular patrol well, neither were they strangers. It will be difficult to distance himself, but Gaius will need his help, both physical and magical. 

Elyan looks a bit pale at the prospect. Gaius gives him a sad, sympathetic smile. "There's no need for you to involve yourself, Elyan," he says gently. "We will let you know what we find."

The young knight nods, and takes a deep breath. Merlin feels for him; all the knights are close, by virtue of their shared training, duties and quarters - their rooms, though lavish, are all in the same wing, overlooking the barracks of the standing men-at-arms - and in particular by the sense of loyalty they all feel to Arthur, and to Camelot. He's fairly sure, though, that Elyan had counted at least one of the men on the patrol as a friend.

"So, what did you tell Arthur?" Elyan asks, clearly wanting a change of focus.

Gaius closes the book and rests his elbows on the table. He gives Merlin a speculative glance. "I told him that he'd met Emrys before."

"What? Gaius!" Merlin can't believe that after all these years, Gaius is willing to give anyone - let alone Arthur - hints about Merlin's secrets.

"Calm down, Merlin," Gaius says. "I felt it was necessary. We cannot have Arthur running blind when Morgana knows - or thinks she knows - what Emrys looks like."

"Morgana knows?" Elyan is incredulous.

"She thinks Emrys is an old man with a long, white beard," Merlin says. "She has no idea I have magic. If she did, she'd be even more dangerous to Camelot."

Elyan nods, then looks thoughtful, as if he's remembering something. "An old man with a beard?" he repeats, his gaze traveling over Merlin. "And a red robe?"

Merlin cringes. Of course Elyan would put it together. "Er, yeah. Um, sorry about the, you know..."

"Flinging us around like dolls in the woods, that one day?" Elyan finishes ruefully. He snorts. "See, even then you didn't hurt us. Although Percival was really mad about that sword."

Merlin grins sheepishly. "Turnabout's fair play. Consider it payback for never leaving me enough food when we camp."

Elyan laughs, but sobers quickly. "Wait, wasn't the old man the one who killed Uther?" The confusion on his face is tinged with a tiny but distinct bit of caution.

"Merlin tried very hard to save Uther," Gaius says, "but the spell he used was corrupted by a cursed charm that Morgana had Agravaine put around the king's neck." The grief and regret in his voice are clear. Whatever Uther's faults, Gaius had been a friend to him. "We didn't find it until after."

Merlin duck his head, rubbing at his eyes. His gut still clenches whenever he remembers that awful night. He will never forgive himself for not checking for other magic before casting the healing spell, no matter how much Gaius tries to assure him that he couldn't possibly have guessed Morgana's intentions. 

When he looks up, Elyan is watching him intently. "You tried to save him, even though he would have had you killed if he'd found out?"

"He was Arthur's father," Merlin says, because that's all there is to it. Uther had been Arthur's father, and Arthur had not been ready to lose him.

Elyan shakes his head. "Better man than me, Merlin," he says quietly.

Merlin isn't, not in the least, but he doesn't know how to even begin explaining that. Instead, he says, "Is there anything else we can do, Gaius? Anywhere else we can look for answers?"

Gaius shakes his head. "You might venture into the library, if you have the time. Geoffrey has several books and scrolls that speak of the ancient peoples of Albion." He glances at Elyan, then continues, "If you can manage to get into the forbidden stacks, there might be something pertinent, though, in truth, I doubt you'll find anything. All there is to do is wait, in my opinion."

"The forbidden stacks?" Elyan echoes. "I thought that was just a rumor."

"No, they're real," Merlin says. "The entrance is disguised as a bookcase. I'll show you tonight. We can sneak in after Geoffrey goes to bed."

"Will you have time?" Elyan asks. He glances at the window; outside, the sunlight is deepening to orange with the lateness of the day. "Leon will be back at sunset." With the bodies, he doesn't say.

Merlin looks to Gaius, who says, "Best go now, Merlin. Try to be circumspect." His expression suggests his skepticism that Merlin is capable of being anything even approaching 'circumspect.'

Merlin grins. "We will be, Gaius." He claps Elyan on the shoulder. "Come on. You should drop that mail off first, though, or Geoffrey won't let you set foot in the door. No armour in the library."

Elyan stands, scooping up the hauberk off the floor. "Why not?"

"Who knows," Merlin says with a shrug. "No food or drink, I get, but no weapons, no armour, and gods forbid you go in there with an uncovered candle. How is anyone supposed to read in the dark?" 

"I believe that rule only applies to you, Merlin," Gaius says, waving them to the door. "You did set one of the books on fire."

That startles a laugh out of Elyan. "Did you really, Merlin?"

Merlin ducks his head. "Just a small one. About Greek pottery. It wasn't very good."

"What were you reading about Greek pottery for?" Elyan asks.

"You don't want to know," Gaius says wryly from the bench, his eyes alight in his weathered face.

Merlin's cheeks flame. "Bye, Gaius," he says pointedly, and hurries out the door.

They never make it to the library, as their detour to the armourer proves serendipitous. The messenger from Nemeth is there, haggling over the cost of some leather armour. 

"No way I'm riding back without it," he says. "I can't afford proper mail, but I won't go unprotected."

"Do you really think it'll help?" Elyan asks, skeptical, and a little insulted. "Two knights and three men-at-arms of Camelot were cut down. That is no easy feat."

The messenger shrugs, fingering the stiff, undyed leather. "Better than nothing," he says. "And my mare's a sight faster than anything your men were riding, I promise you that. All I have to do is outrun them, and if this keeps an arrow out of my ribs..." 

Elyan and Best, the armourer, exchange a knowing look. "It won't," Elyan warns. 

"This and an arming shirt underneath," the messenger says determinedly, "might keep me alive long enough to reach home. Better than nothing," he repeats.

Elyan sighs. "Your money." He turns to Best and lets the plated mail drop with a jangle on the table. As he and Best start to examine it, Merlin pulls aside the messenger.

"What's your name?" he asks. "I'm Merlin."

"Tomill," the man replies, still running his hands over the leather. There's dread in his eyes, as if the prospect of riding back to Nemeth is about to overwhelm him.

"Can you tell me anything about what you saw out there, Tomill?" Merlin asks gently.

Tomill startles. "And who the bloody hell are you?" he demands.

Merlin shrugs self-deprecatingly. "The king's manservant." He tilts his head at Elyan. "Sir Elyan's a friend of mine, and he knew the men on that patrol. We're trying to figure out what happened. I heard what you told the king, but maybe there's something you've remembered since then?"

Tomill squints at Merlin, and his suspicion clears. "Yeah, I saw you in the council chambers." He shakes his head. "There really wasn't anything else..." he says, but the way he trails off tells Merlin that there was.

"Anything at all?" Merlin prompts, hoping he sounds earnest and not shifty.

"Well..." Tomill glances around, but Elyan and Best are hunkered over the table, deep in conversation. "I didn't want to..." He swallows. "I know how your kingdom deals with magic."

Merlin fights to keep the scowl off his face. "King Arthur would not condemn you for relaying what you saw," he murmurs. "Even his father wouldn't have."

"Right." Tomill looks unconvinced. He watches Merlin for a few moments, then nods to himself. "Well. The note, see..." he glances around again before continuing. "Like I told your king, I didn't touch it, but I wasn't about to. It was, the whole paper was smoldering around the edges - only it never burned away. I stood there so long my mare wandered off." He shivers. "It was like being dazed, like something knocked me on the head. I just stood there, staring at it." His voice drops to a whisper. "They wanted to make sure I saw it. The note, the magic... and the sign."

"What sign?" Merlin hisses, surprised. "You said there was no identifying mark."

"It was magic!" Tomill snaps back, still whispering. "I wasn't about to say I saw a wolf made of smoke from the paper that wouldn't burn." His boyish face pale, he goes on, "A wolf, rampant, facing the opposite of your king's dragon. They wanted me to see it. They made me stand there and look, when I wanted to get back on my horse and flee." Another shiver overtakes him, and his lips contort into a grimace. "I'm going east on the way back. It'll take three days extra, but I'll be damned if I ride by that spot again."

Merlin tries to smile in gratitude, and claps Tomill on the arm. "Thank you, my friend," he says. "You've been most helpful. If there's anything you need while you're here, just find me. I live with the court physician."

Tomill frowns, hands clamping on his armour. "I thought you said you were the king's manservant. Why don't you sleep near him?"

Merlin shrugs again, trying to look disarming. "He says I talk too much."

Tomill eyes him as if Merlin is perhaps a little deranged, but says, "Any chance you could talk a helm out of your armourer, there?" He nods toward Best.

Merlin turns to see Best and Elyan comparing bits of metal plate, and says, "I'll see what I can do."

"A wolf, rampant," Elyan muses after Merlin tells him what he's learned. They're on their way to the courtyard; watchmen have spotted Leon's party returning to the city, earlier than expected. "I don't remember seeing a device like that before."

"Not anywhere?" Merlin prompts. "Not on someone's cloak, in passing, or on a ring?"

Elyan shakes his head. "If I did, I didn't notice it. A few wolf heads," he allows, "on shields and surcoats, but that's all." 

Merlin sighs. "Maybe Gaius will know more."

"Ask Gwaine, when he gets back," Elyan suggests. "He's seen more of the Five Kingdoms than I have."

"He has gotten around," Merlin agrees, but he's also thinking of Gwaine's birth into nobility: perhaps he'll recall something from his childhood in Carleon.

They turn a corner and see Arthur striding purposefully up the corridor, flanked by Percival and trailed by a guard.

There was a time, not long ago, when Merlin would have called out, 'Arthur!' and watched with amusement as Arthur spun toward him, indignant scowl at war with an affectionate gaze. That time is over. Every day that passes seems to widen the distance between Merlin and his king. Where once Merlin would have said they were friends (no matter how ardently Arthur proclaimed that this was simply not possible), now they are more truly servant and master than they have ever been. For all that Arthur still listens to Merlin's opinion when it's offered, he does not solicit it, nor confide in Merlin as he once did. Those privileges are Gwen's now. Gone, too, is the easy ribbing and jesting between them. It is as if marriage has stripped the last of the boy from Arthur, and left a stern and proper king who has neither time nor patience for even the smallest indulgences of youth.

Merlin accepts it - he has learned to accept a great deal over the years - but it still hurts, knocking daily into this wall that Arthur has erected. Merlin doesn't see how destiny can carry him beyond it. 

"Sire!" he calls out, and isn't surprised when Arthur doesn't even miss a stride.

"Not now, Merlin!" the king tosses over his shoulder, not looking around. Percival does, though, and murmurs something that makes Arthur pause and turn. "Sir Elyan. The watch reports that Sir Leon's party is returning early."

Elyan nods and jogs to catch up. "We heard," he says, looking back at Merlin, who can't bring himself to join them, suddenly. 

Arthur follows his gaze "You look better," he says to Merlin. "Go tell Gaius that Leon should have the bodies to him shortly. Then go see to my horses." He continues down the hall while Merlin is still acknowledging the order. Elyan sends Merlin a concerned look before following the king.

Well. This will give him time to talk to Gaius about what Tomill had seen, anyway, Merlin thinks as he heads back to the other side of the castle. 

Despite their rift, it appears to Merlin that Arthur's trying to keep him out of the way not out of frustration, but as if to protect him. How does the man think Gaius is going to perform the examinations alone, though, in his still-weakened state? It has been a month and more since his time in the dungeon, but Gaius doesn't quite seem himself yet. He moves a trifle more slowly, sends Merlin on some of the calls to the lower town, and hasn't really regained the weight he lost in that awful week. 

Merlin worries about him, in the dark, silent hours of the night, and wonders what magic he's willing to do - what price he's willing to pay - to keep Gaius with him that much longer.

He's barely done relaying to Gaius what Tomill had told him when there's a knock on the door. A page pokes his head in, apologetic, and says, "Gaius, Merlin, you're both wanted in the council chambers."

When they get there, it's to find Tomill standing before Arthur, flanked by a pair of guards and looking very cowed.

"Merlin," Arthur snaps without preamble, "this man claims he told you about the magic he saw where he found the bodies of the patrol. Is that true?"

Merlin goes to stand by the king, giving Tomill a sympathetic wince. "Yes, sire. He said he saw a piece of parchment that smouldered but never burned away, and the image of a wolf in the smoke. He also said he tried to leave the place, but the magic wouldn't let him."

Tomill sags in relief, and Arthur turns his glowering displeasure on Merlin. "And why did you not inform me of this immediately?" he demands.

"I tried, sire. You didn't give me a chance," Merlin says with false innocence, though he'd had absolutely no intention of telling Arthur anything in the corridor. He has no problem calling Arthur on his behavior in public, despite the distance between them.

Arthur's scowl deepens momentarily. "You didn't mention you had anything important to say," he shoots back, before motioning to the guards. "Release him. Tomill, is it? You will tell us again everything that you saw. Leave out nothing." His voice gentles slightly, and he adds, "It is a terrifying thing, to be entrapped by magic, but you are neither to be blamed nor punished for it. Do you understand?"

Tomill nods frantically. "Yes, sire. Please forgive me for not speaking up. Your servant said I had nothing to fear, but..." he trails off, obviously unwilling to admit his distrust of the king who's just shown him mercy.

"Forgiven," Arthur says, glancing at Merlin with something that might be a pleased expression. Merlin's not sure what to think.

Tomill repeats everything for what's probably the third time, at least. Merlin watches Gaius, but his mentor doesn't seem to gain anything from the telling. Arthur has Leon repeat what he reported also: they'd tried repeatedly and through various means to take up the bodies of the patrol and carry them home, but all were stuck fast to the ground, like boulders. They'd even tried digging beneath the bodies, to no avail. 

"Is this magic permanent, Gaius?" Arthur asks when Leon, clearly shaken, is done speaking.

"Unlikely, sire," Gaius says after a thoughtful pause, "but not impossible. If Sir Leon is right, and the bodies are anchored in place in the air, rather than to the ground itself... the magic required to accomplish this is complex and powerful. There are very few who could do it with any sort of ease." 

_Oh, perfect,_ Merlin thinks. _Why am I even surprised?_

"Wonderful," Arthur sighs. "Do you have any suggestions, Gaius? Any avenues that might be explored?"

Gaius gives Arthur a weighted look. "I do, sire. Perhaps we could discuss them?" 

Arthur nods. "Very well. Sir Leon, take your dinner and rest well. You will ride out again tomorrow, either to bring our men home or to erect a cairn over them. " 

Leon bows shortly and gathers up his party. "A good evening to you, then, sire."

Arthur nods regally, and the men stride out, nearly in step, almost in marching formation - an unintentional but impressive show of unity.

"Tomill, you are dismissed. Merlin, make sure he gets a solid meal in him."

Merlin nods, understanding the message: See if he'll tell you anything more. He's pretty sure there's also an 'I don't want to have to actively avoid you, so get out from underfoot' in there somewhere.

Gaius puts an end to such notions, though, when he says, "Actually, sire, I'd like Merlin to join us."

Arthur doesn't pout, but it seems like a near thing. "What exactly can Merlin contribute to this conversation?"

"You'll see, sire," Gaius says.

Elyan catches Merlin's eye from where he's standing against his favorite column, looking a little alarmed, and raises a questioning brow. Merlin shrugs and returns it, tilting his head at Arthur. Elyan nods, and straightens. "Sire," he says, "I believe I might be of help, as well."

Arthur, startled, looks between him and Merlin, then over at Gaius. Gaius nods. 

"Very well," Arthur says curtly. "We'll meet in my chambers shortly." He tilts his head at Tomill, and looks to Merlin. "Do make sure the kitchens don't stint this man on his meal."

Merlin dips his head in acknowledgement, says, "Of course, sire," and beckons to Tomill. The man hurries after him gladly.

With Tomill safely ensconced in the kitchens with stew and bread, one guard still hovering nearby, Merlin heads to Arthur's new chambers. They are in the same wing as before, only one floor higher - not his father's old rooms, but close to them - and adjoined to Gwen's chambers by a short pass-through, the doors of which, as far as Merlin knows, are never closed. 

He can't swear to it one way or the other, though, because he's rarely in Arthur's chambers anymore. George sees to the king's morning and evening needs, now, and Gwen has her own maidservant, a young girl from the lower town. Merlin mostly serves lunch, and at public dinners, and does all the chores that keep him at a distance from Arthur: taking care of Arthur's horses, armour and other gear, carrying messages, porting maps and documents to and fro. Sometimes he wonders why Arthur keeps him around at all - there are more than enough stablehands, servants and pages in the castle to take care of the king's needs. Often, he feels superfluous, like he's only being kept around out of pity.

On the upside, Gaius is in true need of the extra help Merlin now provides while acting as the physician's assistant he was meant to be. Too, Merlin's had more opportunity to study magic; while George is seeing Arthur to bed, Merlin's curled up in his own, or out in the woods, reading and practicing, and finally catching up to where Morgana's been for some time - to where everyone who knows of Emrys expects him to be.

Gaius is waiting for Merlin on the landing between Arthur's old floor and new one. "Elyan's gone up," he says quietly when Merlin reaches him. "I'm going to tell Arthur about Alator."

"What?" It's the second time today that Merlin's been startled by what Gaius is willing to give away. This, though, is an order of magnitude great than the previous bit. 

He's got a suspicion that the old man is trying to pave the way for Merlin to reveal his magic, and sooner rather than later. It worries him, this change in attitude. Gaius has spent seven years admonishing Merlin to keep his power secret. That he's suddenly willing to volunteer such information... Merlin's not sure if it's the circumstances themselves, or if Gaius believes that he won't be around much longer, and it's time for Merlin to stand on his own.

The latter is a frightening thought.

Gaius leads the way up to the next floor and pulls Merlin into an empty alcove before speaking again. "Arthur knows that the old man in the red robe is Emrys, and although I've told him that Emrys tried to save his father, he is still distrustful, in light of Morgana's last attack," Gaius murmurs. "I also said that Emrys has left Camelot, and I have no way to contact him. This is where you come in. You know a man named Alator, who is both an acquaintance of Emrys and knowledgeable in obscure branches of magic. If his safety can be assured, he may be inclined to help us find those who butchered the patrol."

Merlin blinks. "Gaius, I have no way to contact Alator, and certainly no way to ensure he cooperates. How can you trust him, anyway, after what he did to you?"

Gaius pats Merlin on the shoulder, looking both exasperated and proud. "Merlin, he knelt before you. The Catha do not do so lightly, especially their priests. He will help us."

"And how do I reach him?" Merlin persists, still not entirely comfortable with the idea. From what he's read and seen, the Catha are little more than magical mercenaries, selling their services to the highest bidder. He doesn't want to deal with men like that, and certainly not with a man who had hurt Gaius so casually, whatever his present loyalties.

"Scry his location," Gaius says, "and send him a message. You act as if you've never done it before."

"Yes, all right," Merlin sighs. "I still think it's a bad idea, though."

Gaius rolls his eyes, as if exasperated with the foibles of youth, and leads the way to Arthur's chambers. Merlin trails along, trying to think up a plausible explanation for how he knows Alator. Arthur knows so much about Merlin, about all the places he's been, that he's likely to call a bluff on anything that's happened since Merlin arrived in Camelot. Merlin certainly can't say he met a sorcerer in The Rising Sun, or on a hunting trip. Perhaps on the way to Camelot, that first time...

Arthur and Elyan are seated at Arthur's table; Gwen is between them, holding Arthur's hand and talking to her brother. George gives Merlin a disapproving glance as Merlin passes him at the door, but has a kind word for Gaius. Everyone does, these days, and Merlin's glad for it. Gaius has sacrificed much for Camelot; he hadn't deserved the treatment Agravaine had given him, or the looks that lingered until the traitor had made the truth more than clear.

Gwen greets Gaius gladly, too, but there's a distinct falseness to the smile she turns on Merlin. She never looks too pleased to see him anymore, and Merlin has given up trying to ask what he's done wrong. She hadn't been able to look him in the face for weeks after the wedding, and that was when Arthur had started to pull away, too. Merlin doesn't know what he said, or what they saw, or what somebody could possibly have told them, for his friendships with them to fall apart like this. He's certain he's never let on about his feelings for Arthur, not with word or deed or lingering look, not even when he's been drunk. Nobody knows, not even Gaius, or his mother. It's a bigger secret than his magic. 

Merlin can't say for certain that this is why he's become the fifth wheel in the royal household, but he can't think of what else it could be. 

If it was the magic, Arthur would have called him on it long ago.

Arthur's gesturing for Gaius to sit, but Merlin doesn't join him. It's better to keep the distance that Arthur has imposed, he decides, especially with Gwen here. He goes to stand near the fireplace, and watches George fuss at things with a duster on the other side of the room.

Arthur glances at Merlin, then follows his gaze. He looks considering for a moment, and says, "That'll do for now, George, thank you. Tell the guards we don't wish to be disturbed."

George bows and yes-sires and heads for the door, casting another disapproving glare at Merlin before letting himself out. He's a good man, George, but far too enamored of rules and propriety. He'll burst a blood vessel if he ever learns what Merlin really gets up to.

"So, Gaius," Arthur begins after the door has closed, "What do you propose we do? Is there someone you wish to contact?" 

"There is, sire," Gaius confirms. "A man who knows Emrys, and also knows much of magic."

Arthur visibly restrains from rolling his eyes. "Of course. Must I allow another sorcerer to run amuck in my kingdom? The last one wasn't enough?"

Gaius gives Arthur a disapproving frown. "I understand your reluctance, my lord, but if you wish to make headway before the perpetrators strike again, you must accept this man's assistance."

"If these people are as powerful as you suggest," Arthur counters, "why don't they know that Emrys is gone? Isn't there some magical way to discern these things?"

"There is," Gaius acknowledges, "but Emrys is said to be the most powerful sorcerer in the land. He has ways of shielding himself from such magic."

Arthur snorts contemptuously. "Powerful, yes. So powerful he couldn't even manage to overcome Morgana's trinket to save my father." The black look on his face makes Merlin flinch away, heartsick.

"That was no mere trinket!" Gaius snaps harshly. "Morgana is a priestess of the Old Religion. She is one of the few in Albion who can hope to match Emrys, but one cunning act does not negate the truth of his power." He takes a breath, and says more softly, "I'm sorry that it was your father who was lost when she bested Emrys, Arthur. He was a friend to me, and I miss him keenly."

Merlin ventures a glance at his king. Arthur's mouth is set in a thin line, his eyes stormy, but he nods an acknowledgement of Gaius' words. "This man you know..." he prompts, unsubtly changing the topic.

"He is called Alator," Gaius explains. "He is a priest of the Catha, a small but dedicated order of the Old Religion. I believe he can tell us who cast the magic Tomill and Leon described. He may even have heard mention made of a plan to capture Emrys."

"Why would he help us?" Arthur asks, skeptical. "Why would he come to Camelot, knowing that magic is banned here? Knowing - knowing my father's history with sorcerers?" 

"Alator is loyal to Emrys, and will want to help him," Gaius replies. "And you, sire, will assure his safety within your borders."

Arthur stares at Gaius, incredulous, and Merlin rather feels likewise. "Gaius, you can't be serious?" the king demands. "Why would I - how could I - assure him safe passage? What if he hurts somebody? What if some other sorcerer attacks him? I'll not have my men lay down their lives for a sorcerer!"

There is a brief silence, Arthur and Gaius scowling, one angry, the other reproving. Elyan steps in, attempting to ease the tension. "Sire, you allow the Druids passage across our lands. If this man is willing to offer aid, how can you refuse him?"

Arthur's glare moves from the physician to the knight. "I offer no protection to the Druids," he snaps. 

"Then offer none to this Alator," Elyan proposes. "Simply tell him that he may come and go in peace, so long as he is in your service."

Arthur tilts his head at Gaius in question. Gaius quirks his lips unhappily, but nods. "So long as he is free to pass as he must, I suppose it ought to be enough to convince him."

Visibly restraining himself from a sarcastic comeback, Arthur asks, "Where is this man? How will you contact him?"

"That is where Merlin comes in," Gaius says, nodding in Merlin's direction.

All eyes turn to him, and Merlin says, "I met Alator on the way to visit my mother a few years ago. He saved me from bandits... with magic."

Arthur scowls fiercely. "You never told me this."

"I know how you feel about magic, sire," Merlin replies, challenging. "He was heading out of Camelot. I saw no reason to bring him to anyone's attention."

"I've always had the impression, _Mer_ lin," Arthur says, with that peculiar stress on Merlin's name that indicates he's exceptionally frustrated, "that you felt the same way."

Merlin blinks, trying to look innocent. "I don't know what gave you that idea, my lord."

Arthur actually grinds his teeth before offering, "Oh, all the times you've flinched like a little girl at the mention of magic, never mind that you outright told me that magic is evil, and sorcerers can't be trusted."

Merlin knows that Arthur's remembering the day he threatened to kill Uther. In for a copper, he thinks, and says, "I lied."

This brings the king up short, and the sudden silence in the room is suffocating. Gaius seems to approve, from what Merlin can see out of the corner of his eye. Elyan looks cautious. Guinevere is plainly confused, but disapproving of the revelation, as if by lying to Arthur, Merlin has dishonored her, as well.

Arthur stares, face stony, a flicker of something Merlin can't identify in his eyes. "Why?" he asks at last.

"I couldn't let you kill your father," Merlin tells him. "Whatever the truth, his death at your hands would have thrown the kingdom into chaos." He takes a breath, and sighs, "I'm sorry, sire."

Arthur blinks, gaze flicking to the table, to Gaius, to some random point in the middle distance. Finally his eyes find Merlin's again, and he says, "Thank you."

There's more that could be said, but this isn't the time, and even though they're nothing like they were a few months ago, they still understand each other well. Merlin inclines his head, replies, "My lord," and that's an end to it.

"You can contact this Alator?" Arthur asks, as if they'd never left the subject, and Merlin makes up a tale on the spot, about how he'd fed the sorcerer in thanks, using up his meager rations, and been told how to reach him should he ever have need. There's a tavern, and a bar maid...

"I'll take Elyan with me. We'll be back in five days, no more," Merlin says, knowing that it will take little time to scry for Alator, but possibly a lot of it to reach him. Merlin wants a look at the enemy magic, too - wants to know who's looking for him, and what Kilgharrah might know.

"What is your part in all this, exactly, Elyan?" Gwen speaks up at last. "Have you met Alator before?"

Elyan shakes his head. "No. There was... the Druid boy who possessed me..." He shifts slightly in discomfort. "He talked of Emrys. He told me things that made me think." He looks Arthur in the eye and says, "Emrys is your ally, sire, without question. We must do everything we can to help him - as he has done for us."

This declaration doesn't please Arthur. "Gaius has told me the prophecies about Emrys, but I find it hard to trust the words of soothsayers. Look at Morgana." His gaze rakes everyone in the room as he declares, "We pursue this course because our people - our most loyal and dedicated men - have been targeted. You all seem to be forgetting that there are dead knights and soldiers in the forest whose bodies we can't retrieve because magic has again chosen this kingdom as a battleground. For the efforts Gaius claims Emrys has made on Camelot's behalf, I will not simply hand him over to the attackers, should we find him, but neither will I allow anyone else to die for his sake. Is that understood?"

He says it all in a cold, quiet voice, and Merlin knows that there will be no arguing. The king has spoken. "Yes, sire," he answers, echoed by Gaius and Elyan. They both seem displeased, but Merlin's okay with Arthur's declaration.

He's watched enough people die for a future they'll never see. If he thought destiny would let him, he'd walk into the woods right now and put a stop to the madness. It's not that simple, though.

If he falls, Camelot fails. The dream of Albion crumbles.

Merlin's accepted that he can't let that happen, whatever it costs him.

Even though the hour is late, Gaius and Merlin spread a map of Albion - such as they have - across the workbench, orient it north-and-south, and pull an assortment of crystals from the hidey-hole beneath Merlin's bed. Merlin has gotten rather good at crystal scrying, especially for people he knows, and he's confident that finding Alator will take little time. Contacting him, on the other hand...

Gaius fills a stone bowl with water and sets it near the map. Merlin glances over while he wraps the thong of a narrow, blue crystal around his palm, and says, "Are you sure that's a good idea? Morgana might see." 

"There's a spell to block this from her senses," Gaius assures, "and you'll need it to talk to Alator."

Merlin's used this method of communication only once before, when the waters of Avalon had let him talk to Freya, and he's not quite sure how it actually works. "What if there's no water near him?" he asks.

"Any liquid will do," Gaius says, "for men of your power. If there is none, there are ways to send physical messages, and to speak in dreams. Try the bowl first. If it doesn't work, we'll go on to something else."

Merlin's read about dream messages, but never had any chance to try them. It isn't as if he has magic-using friends outside of Camelot to chat with. He keeps track of Gilli with his crystals, but he's wary of trying to speak to the boy. The risk to both of them has always seemed too great.

Crystal and bowl ready, Merlin looks to Gaius, who has produced a small, dusty volume from somewhere, which he lays on the bench. "Here is the spell for protecting your scrying water. Think of a stone wall, or a waterfall... anything to block sight and sound, and wrap it around the bowl."

Merlin studies the spell for a minute, turning the page to read the description and margin notes - he's not the only one to have written in his magic books, apparently - before envisioning the structure of the water scrying spells, and how the protection around them should work.

After a few minutes, he's ready. Casting the new spell first, he tries to envision a stone wall - tall and thick and silent. It should protect the bowl, not just from sight, but from offensive magic. When he weaves in the water spells, everything seems to hold, and the magic feels easy and warm, like it usually does when he's doing things right. Merlin lets his hand drift high over the map, and watches the crystal swing. 

It takes more time than he'd expected, and he feels like something's making a token effort to block the reaching tendrils of his magic, but at last the crystal steadies, tugging at an angle toward the south. It's somewhere Merlin's never been, but the connection feels strong, and he thinks he might be able to reach Alator without switching to a more powerful crystal.

Gaius nods approvingly when Merlin looks to him, and tilts his gaze toward the bowl. Merlin lifts his hand above it, and tries to channel the magic from the connection he's formed, through the crystal, to the water. It pulses, different from when Freya spoke to him, but he supposes it must be. That hadn't been a spell, not really, and he'd only felt the magic, not controlled it. The waters of Avalon dance to their own whims.

The water in the bowl is taking on a yellow tinge, and an image is resolving - the wooden beams of a ceiling framing a clean-shaven profile, which turns toward Merlin in bemusement. The aquiline face is familiar, and no less imposing than before.

Alator shakes his head, and mutters, "Trust a man like you to find me through a mug of mead. I should look to my scrying wards, I see."

Merlin raises an eyebrow. "Is that what that was? They weren't very strong."

"So speaks Emrys," Alator says, raising both eyebrows incredulously in return. "You truly do not comprehend your powers, do you?"

Merlin fights a blush, and presses on. "I need your help."

"Indeed? Go on."

Merlin explains the general situation, and what details he knows of the magic. "I haven't been out there yet; all I know is what I've been told."

"You would do well to stay away," Alator warns, his expression somewhere between stern and concerned. "They will know if you approach."

"Do you know who did this?" Merlin asks. On the other side of the bowl, Gaius sits with quill and parchment spread before him, already writing determinedly, though Merlin doesn't know what about. There's a thread of his magic running alongside Merlin's own, as familiar as his mother's hand on his head.

"The practice of staking a note to the enemy is one the Catha used, and abandoned, centuries ago," Alator tells him. "There are some few vagabond magicians still who pretend to follow our ways, though they have bastardized all for which the Order stands. The rites they practice give them powers not unlike our own, but the magic is raw, ragged and unstable. The spells will collapse in a day or two, if they have not, already." He pauses, looking thoughtful, then offers, "Of course, it is possibly that some of my brothers have been engaged to find you, and bring you to your enemies. I have not heard of any such deal, and most of those I know have sworn to aid you over Morgana, should they be forced to choose. Still, we are not bound by each other's loyalties. It may well be the Catha who hunt you."

Merlin wants to thump his head against the table. "Wonderful." He glances at Gaius, who continues writing steadily, but looks cross; his eyes are glowing gently golden. "And the only way to know is to go and see what the magic feels like."

"Or to wait," Alator says blandly. 

"I will not stand by and see more people slaughtered," Merlin growls, and something in his countenance or his magic must show how strongly he means it, because Alator actually looks contrite for a moment.

"It is your choice, but I caution you - it is unlikely that you will go unnoticed. Send another, if possible. Gaius, perhaps, as he seems eager to use his magic for your aid." Alator jerks his head up pointedly, precisely at where Gaius is sitting, even though from his angle he's indicating the empty air in front of him. 

Gaius twitches, and the gold fades from his eyes. "I'm sure you'll forgive me a certain degree of mistrust, Alator, considering our previous encounter," he says archly.

Alator snorts. "A certain degree," he agrees, "though _you_ will forgive _me_ if I continue to protect the secrets of my person and my Order, I'm sure."

"Oh, of course," Gaius drawls sardonically, and keeps on writing. 

"Right, then," Merlin says after a tense pause, "so did I mention the part where I need you to actually come to Camelot?"

It takes a great deal of persuading, and the offer to let Alator meet Kilgharrah, but the priest finally agrees to meet Merlin at the crossroads south of the Isgards. As the image in the scrying bowl fades, Merlin asks Gaius, "So what were you doing?"

Gaius beams, looking smug. "Gathering intelligence. I was curious as to what company our erstwhile opponent is keeping these days, and where he's making his bed for the night."

"Find out anything interesting?" Oh, Merlin can't wait to learn _that_ spell. 

"I did." Gaius slides the parchment across the table, and taps it. "Quite a few magic-user there, and some curious conversation to be heard."

Merlin glances over the parchment. Gaius has written down a surprising number of names, putting marks next to some, and noted what each was speaking of. Morgana seems to be a popular topic, and a young, white dragon - Merlin wishes he could wring Kilgharrah's scaly neck for letting the little one run loose like that - but Arthur and Camelot are mentioned also. Merlin reads more thoroughly, and then rubs the bridge of his nose. "This is..." He's not sure what to think. "Good, right?"

"They are taking sides," Gaius says, not displeased. "They see that Arthur is opening his mind to the possibility of magic, even though Morgana still rails against him. Those who remember the purges will choose peace. They have faith that the prophecies are coming true."

"And what of those who don't?" Merlin asks. Or those who want revenge no matter what. He's still waiting for Mordred to make a move; he knows he hasn't seen the last of the boy.

"There will always be opposition," Gaius replies with a sad shrug. "That is the way of things. It seems to me, though, that the people who want peace outnumber those who want bloodshed - even men like Alator. We are most of us tired of living in fear, Merlin. You know this as well as anyone. Hope is a powerful thing."

Merlin nods. It's better now, in many ways, but some months hope for the future was the only thing that kept him going. These days, he hopes for different things - every time Arthur ducks his eyes or turns his back, he hopes. 

He's not sure what he's hoping for, though. The thing he wanted most, besides Albion, is out of reach.

Merlin and Elyan ride out at first light, at the heels of Leon's party. Much as Merlin wants to see the site of the attack, Alator's warning sticks in his head. He won't risk bringing the enemy sorcerers down upon them. At the first fork in the road, Elyan shouts a farewell to Leon, and leads the way down the Near Southern Road.

Merlin keeps his magic ready, primed at his fingertips, simmering just beneath his skin. It's possible that the sorcerers have laid wards or warning spells along every road, and he wants to be prepared. 

Everything looks more vivid when he's on the edge like this, and he can taste all manner of magics in the air. The Druids have passed nearby recently, and a pair of wood nymphs have stopped to rest in the old oak where the road bends. There are faeries and sprites in the stream that springs from the caverns where Kilgharrah was once imprisoned; their presence is a sharp contrast to the tattered remnants of despair that still emanate from the caves. Merlin had never really understood what Kilgharrah had suffered until he'd ventured down once, after the dragon's departure, and let his magic run loose. Raw anger and desolation had permeated the air, clinging to the dank walls - Merlin had dropped to his knees with the pain of it. It makes him shiver still, if he slips the leash on his magic while in the citadel. The very stones of the castle seep remnants of Kilgharrah's madness. 

Merlin will have to call him before they reach the crossroads, probably this evening. He's not sure where or how the dragon gets his information - he's certain it's not entirely in visions or dreams - but Kilgharrah is bound to have something to tell Merlin about the current mess. He might even know if it's the Catha or their bastardized offshoots who are responsible, or perhaps someone else altogether. And, of course, Merlin needs to tell him about Alator. Merlin doesn't know how pleased Kilgharrah will be about speaking to another magic user, as he seems to prefer keeping his continued existence secret (and Merlin doesn't at all believe that it's just to keep Arthur from finding out that he's no dragon-slayer). Still, he thinks Kilgharrah won't be completely unreceptive to the idea, and Merlin's perfectly willing to couch it in terms of assessing Alator's trustworthiness. It's not far from the truth. Whatever Gaius might believe of the priest, Merlin is uneasy about this alliance. 

They push the horses a fair bit, and only stop briefly to unpack their lunches, eating as they walk on. The horses amble behind, heads low, nostrils flared. Merlin feels his mare's breath puffing on his back and wishes he could spare her, but the border is far off, and the risk of another attack eats at his thoughts. 

"So who's this sorcerer we're looking for?" Elyan asks. He's played along with Gaius and Merlin's tale, as if there isn't anything beneath the surface of it, but clearly he knows Merlin well enough to guess that there's more to the story.

"Alator is a priest of the Catha," Merlin answers, folding up the remnants of his lunch and stuffing them in his saddle bag. "He's the one who kidnapped Gaius when Agravaine and Morgana were trying to frame him."

Elyan stops suddenly, his horse butting into him from behind. "And you're going to _him_ for help?" he demands, incredulous.

"Gaius spoke the truth when he said Alator showed loyalty to me," Merlin tells him. He glances at his mare, and decides to give her a while more before remounting. "When he learned what the prophecies say about me, he betrayed Morgana and swore himself to my service." He shoots a rueful smirk at Elyan as they continue walking. "I don't actually trust him, but Gaius believes he'll follow me, and he agreed to come back to Camelot with us when I spoke to him last night."

"You spoke to him?" Elyan echoes. "How?" Merlin quirks an eyebrow, and Elyan laughs. "Oh, of course. Magic!"

"He has ways of traveling quickly over long distances," Merlin continues, "but it would be too suspicious if he just showed up out of the blue. Plus, there's someone else I'd like to speak to before we get to the crossroads, and the further from the castle I meet him, the safer for all of us."

"How many sorcerers do you know?" Elyan asks. "I don't get the impression that you have a lot of free time, even now." He seems to realize that what he's said might wound Merlin, and starts to add something, but Merlin waves him off. 

"It's gotten easier of late, actually," Merlin acknowledges, "but I don't really know that many. Most of the ones I've met have been trying to kill Arthur, and, well..." He shrugs awkwardly. "They're not around anymore."

Elyan blinks at this, as if startled, but says nothing. Merlin would be a little bitter at the implication that he's not capable of killing, but that's the image he's cultivated over the years, willingly or not, so he can't blame Elyan for not seeing through it. Frankly, most days he wishes it were the truth.

Merlin takes special care with the horses that night, checking their feet and legs in the glow of a conjured ball of light, magically tightening loose shoe nails, whispering soothing spells of rest. He revels in the chance to practice healing magic, which had been a challenge to learn but constitutes some of that about which he's proudest, when it comes to his abilities. Anyone can throw a fireball, but healing magic takes a discipline and concentration that Merlin's worked hard to develop. On good days, it makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, there might be something worthwhile about this Emrys business, after all. Maybe it won't always be about blowing the biggest hole in the ground, or leaving the fewest men standing.

Elyan's taken care of dinner, shooting a grouse and a rabbit, and gathering some mushrooms and wild onion. Together with the bread, cheese and apples from Merlin's pack, he's made a meal not unlike what will be served in Camelot tonight. 

"So, you fight, you hunt, you make armor, you shoe horses, and you cook," Merlin says as he's wiping gravy off his plate with a hunk of bread. "Is there anything you can't do, Elyan?"

Elyan thinks for a moment. "I can't swim," he offers.

Merlin stares. "What, really?"

"Yes, really," Elyan replies, rolling his eyes. "Not a lot of places to swim around Camelot, if you haven't noticed, and after I left... well, there really wasn't any call for it."

"Will and I used to swim in the stream near our village all the time," Merlin says, remembering the swimming hole under the huge, old tree that overhung the bank, and how upset they'd been when it had fallen into the water after a bad storm, changing the way the stream ran. Merlin had tried to fix it with magic, but the bank just wouldn't hold up, and he'd only made things worse. They'd had to trek much further to find a pool deep enough to swim in, after. "I had to learn, because-" he gestures at himself, "-well, I'm not well-padded, as Will's mum said once. I don't really float."

Elyan bursts out with a laugh. "Good incentive, I suppose. I take it your friend gave no mercy?"

"Oh, he was awful," Merlin confirmed. "He'd drag me out to the deepest part and leave me there. My legs would sink and I'd start to flail around, panicking, until my magic lifted me clear of the water. Then he'd say I cheated, and throw me back in. Eventually I figured it out. Sometimes we'd take off for a few days, walk all the way out to the town near the border, just so we could swim in the mill pond. Drove our mums spare, and we stopped doing it after one of the town kids drowned there." Merlin sets his plate down and drags a hand over his face. "Goddess, but I miss Will," he sighs.

"He's gone?" Elyan ventures gently.

Merlin nods. "He was killed helping defend our village from bandits. My mother came to Uther for help, since Cenred never did a damned thing for our part of the kingdom, but Uther refused her. I went back with her, and so did Gwen and Morgana... and Arthur. Arthur got the people to stand up for themselves - taught them how to use a sword, gave a speech, everything." Merlin snorts. "Will hated him. He thought the whole thing was a mistake, but in the end, he still fought. As he was dying..." Merlin trails off and has to run his sleeve over his eyes briefly. "He took the blame for the magic I used during the fight." He doesn't want to say more. As low as he's been feeling lately, remembering Will can only make him more miserable. 

"Sounds like a good friend," Elyan says kindly.

"The best," Merlin agrees, and says nothing more for a long time.

The fire is dying, all the thick branches burnt to charcoal, before Merlin finally rises. "So, would you like to meet that person I need to talk to?" he asks.

Elyan looks up from the sword he's sharpening. "If you think they won't mind," he says.

"He won't," Merlin replies, rubbing a kink out of his neck. "He wants to meet all of the Round Table knights. Plus, he won't admit it, but I'm pretty sure he's a bit lonely."

"Round Table knights?" Elyan asks as Merlin leads them away from the campsite, toward a large clearing he'd made note of earlier.

"That's what he calls all of you who sat at the ancient kings' table, and then got knighted." He sags, remembering another loss, and says, "He met Lancelot once, but that's all."

"Lancelot knew about your magic?" Elyan asks, though he doesn't seem surprised. "You two were thick as thieves, whispering in corners all the time. We've always wondered what it was you were really talking about."

"Nobody believed our excuses?" Merlin knows damned well that nobody had, but they'd never been called on it, either.

"Nobody could discuss stew seasonings that intently," Elyan chuckles. "We thought maybe it was girl trouble. Or guy trouble. You know, romantic hiccups."

"Guy trouble?" Merlin echoes, though, yes, they'd talked about that, too, once or twice, but only after getting suitably inebriated. Neither he nor Lancelot had wanted to mull over their pathetic love lives while sober.

Elyan shrugs. "We're an open-minded bunch," he says with a wide grin. "Especially Gwaine."

"Yes, I'm well aware of the state of Gwaine's mind," Merlin replies. Gwaine has offered him comfort several times, in fact, but it's never been in Merlin's nature to bed people he wants to stay friends with. He's seen how badly that can end.

Elyan offers up a story about Gwaine's most recent escapade. Merlin's heard it already, but he's grateful for the distraction Elyan intends it as, and laughs in all the right places.

When they reach the edge of the clearing, Merlin strides out into the tall reeds. The ground is marshy, pitted with pools of standing water, and he climbs a small hummock before calling, **Kilgharrah, my friend, come to me. Someone is looking for me. Men have died. I need your advice.**

When the growl of the dragon tongue has rolled through the clearing, carrying Merlin's summons far into the night, Elyan asks, in a slightly awed voice, "What kind of spell is that?" 

"It's not a spell," Merlin says. "It's a request - just spoken in another language."

"Not one I've ever heard," Elyan mutters, joining Merlin on the hummock. 

"I'd be surprised if you had," Merlin tells him, and then there is the rush of massive wings.

Elyan swears as Kilgharrah lands before them, but Merlin can't be bothered to reassure him, because darting around the Great Dragon's head like a manic bat, white scales luminescent in the moonlight, is Aithusa. 

Merlin hasn't seen him since Kilgharrah had come to tell him that Morgana lived.

**Land, already!** Kilgharrah huffs, and Aithusa settles reluctantly at his feet, very pointedly not looking at Merlin.

"Greetings, young warlock," Kilgharrah says. "Who is your friend?"

Merlin waves distractedly. "Kilgharrah, Elyan. Elyan, Kilgharrah." He crouches, and calls, **Hello, little one. Are you still angry with me?**

Aithusa shuffles in place, flaps his wings, and turns away from Merlin entirely. 

Feeling like a piece of his heart is crumbling to dust, Merlin rises. When he looks up, the compassion in Kilgharrah's eyes makes him turn away, too. "So," he says to Elyan with as much cheer as he can muster, "bet you've never met a dragon before."

Elyan's looking a cross between incredulous and concerned, but all he says is, "You certainly are full of surprises, Merlin."

"Aren't I, though?" Merlin agrees, and keeps his eyes firmly on Kilgharrah's face as he makes proper introductions. "Kilgharrah, this is Sir Elyan, the queen's brother. Elyan, these are Kilgharrah and Aithusa," - he's relieved that he doesn't trip over the name - "the last dragons of Albion."

Elyan sketches a slight bow. "A pleasure," he says. "Merlin said we'd be meeting someone, but he didn't say who."

"A pleasure, indeed," the Great Dragon rumbles. "And Merlin is one to keep his secrets, as you know, I'm sure." He tilts his head in that considering way he has, as if debating how, exactly, to frame his newest pronouncement. He's stopped speaking in riddles and vague metaphor, mostly, but every now and then he says something that takes Merlin right back to the caves. Fortunately, tonight is not one of those times. "You're aware that the White Order is looking for you, then, Merlin?"

"So it's not the Catha?" Merlin asks. "I spoke to the priest who took Gaius, but he said he wasn't sure."

"The White Order is an offshoot of the Catha," Kilgharrah says. "Several centuries ago, an old seer had a vision, and told of it to anyone who would listen. Some of the Catha took it to heart, and left to follow the seer. They are few, but powerful, and ardently adhering to their single vow."

"Which is?" Merlin prompts, feeling a bit of dread.

"Rescue Emrys from the thrall of Arthur Pendragon, no matter the cost."

Merlin stares. "I- What? Are you serious?" The words come out ragged, but he can't say if it's for wanting to laugh, or cry. "What did that old man see?"

"That, I do not know," Kilgharrah says with something like resignation. "I have tried to discern it, but the thread was lost long ago, and the White Order keeps its secrets well. I suspect it matters little. The important thing is that you must challenge their beliefs. They venerate the prophecies of Emrys, more so than the Druids. They will stop at nothing to protect you, but they should yield to you, if you command it. They see you as their savior."

"Nothing new there," Merlin grumbles, shaking his head. "So if I just confront them, you think they'll fall in line?"

Kilgharrah ponders for a moment - or maybe looks into the future. It's hard to tell with him, sometimes. "I cannot say. I would urge caution."

Merlin snorts. "That much I'd worked out for myself." He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling very, very tired, and then goes on. "The Catha priest, will you speak to him? He wants to meet you."

"To what end?" Kilgharrah demands, looking typically affronted. "Merlin, I am not-"

"A horse, a dog, a pet, a hunting hawk, a servant, an oddity for my own personal amusement," Merlin reels off. "Did I get everything?"

Kilgharrah snarls faintly. Merlin can see Elyan flinch, from the corner of his eye, but he knows the dragon's just frustrated at being called on his game. It does look a bit intimidating, though.

"I am not amused, Merlin," Kilgharrah declares. "If I know you, you've already promised him an audience with me."

Merlin quirks his mouth guiltily. "Well, yeah, I have. I need his help, but I don't trust him. I thought you might be able to tell me more about him."

"He is a Catha," the dragon growls. "Do not turn your back on him. Surely you have worked out _that_?" He's mocking Merlin, but he also sounds... indulgent. As if he actually _is_ amused, and entertained by Merlin's juvenile machinations.

"Will you speak to him?" Merlin presses, and with a gusty sigh, the dragon nods his massive head.

"Yes, yes," he agrees. "As if I have a choice."

"You have a choice," Merlin snaps back, chagrined. If Kilgharrah still believes that Merlin would abuse his Command, to bend the dragon's will over something so petty...

"That is not what I meant," Kilgharrah says, almost kindly. "Circumstances demand such a meeting. Your allies must consolidate themselves, or Morgana will win simply through a lack of action on our part."

Merlin doesn't want to think about his allies; it was not so long ago that Kilgharrah spoke of _Camelot's_ allies, or _Arthur's_. Instead, he latches on to the memory the dragon's words have triggered: "Gaius did some eavesdropping while I was talking to Alator," he says, "and people seem to be taking sides - more with Arthur than Morgana, he thinks. Word's been spreading that, well, that Emrys is rising, and that he- that I- stand with Camelot."

Kilgharrah hums at this, a sound that resonates in Merlin's breastbone and sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. He's always surprised at the little connections his mind and body make to the dragons. They comfort him, like a warm fire in the hearth, or a friendly hand on his shoulder. 

"The time of prophecy approaches," Kilgharrah declares at last. "Things will only move faster from now on. Are you prepared for all that must come to pass?"

"I don't even _know_ what must come to pass," Merlin points out, feeling like he's been left in the dark again. "How can I be prepared?"

Kilgharrah snorts. "There will be bloodshed, of course," he begins.

"When is there not?" Merlin interjects glumly.

"Sacrifices will have to be made," the dragon continues, "and revelations."

"Oh," Merlin says, twigging to at least part of what Kilgharrah means. "That." The 'sacrifices' bit eludes him, though. This has turned out to be a night of riddles, after all.

"You will have to tell Arthur of your powers eventually, Merlin," Kilgharrah admonishes. "How can magic return to Camelot if its herald, its saviour, stays in the shadows?"

"I know," Merlin says with a sigh, wincing at being called a saviour. "I know." He can see it coming - Elyan, Gaius, the Druids, Alator and the White Order, more and more know the truth, and if one of them does not tell Arthur intentionally, he'll likely trip over it by accident soon enough, anyway. It's all coming to a head, and though Merlin's been waiting for this almost since the day he walked into Camelot, he doesn't think he's ready for it. 

He dreads seeing the betrayal that will contort Arthur's face. 

Aithusa does not look at him as the two dragons take to the air, and Merlin resignedly puts the little one out of his mind. Elyan very carefully talks about how they should handle Alator, rather than dragons, as they return to camp.

"Who exactly are the Catha, anyway?" he asks at one point.

Merlin thinks for a moment. "Magical mercenaries," he says. "They have some greater purpose, supposedly, about keeping magic balanced and unbound, but what that means in practice is that you can hire them to do just about anything, for the right price. If they think it won't harm the overall balance, they'll do it."

"That's..." Elyan trails off, before admitting, "a little worrisome, actually. I'm surprised we haven't seen more of them around here." He slows his stride, looks around for a moment, and points off to the left. As they angle in that direction, they hear the horses startle into wakefulness, snorting in alarm.

"They rarely take money," Merlin explains, after calling out to try and soothe the animals. "What they value most are magical items and little-known spells. Morgana had to trade something rather significant to get Alator's aid. He won't tell me what it was."

"Also worrisome," Elyan says, as they reach the wards Merlin had set to keep the horses from wandering as they graze. "Who's to say it's not something he might use against us?"

"My problem exactly," Merlin agrees. "I don't care what Gaius says, I can't trust that man to not switch sides again, if he sees advantage in it." He glances around the camp, and thinks he should move the wards. The horses have already polished off every edible plant in sight, to say nothing of their grain. "You're a hungry pair, aren't you?" 

Elyan offers to prepare the bedrolls, so Merlin extends the wards, and uses a bit of magic to chivvy the horses to a better spot. He'd hobble them, normally, but tomorrow there will be no rest again until nightfall. Better they get as much freedom now as they can, and the wards will keep things out as well as in.

Merlin wishes he'd learned these spells while Arthur was still a prince. They would have been so useful on all those bloody hunting trips.

He tucks into his bedroll and lets himself dream about the way things used to be.

Half a day's riding has them skirting the foothills of the Mountains of Isgard, and Merlin glances longingly down the road to Escetia. They pause for lunch a little ways south of it, sitting on a downed tree trunk, letting the horses graze. This day is hotter than the last, and the horses' coats are flecked with sweat too soon for Merlin's liking. He's half tempted to use the distance-walking spell he's been practicing, but he fears the White Order will sense such powerful magic. He wonder if that isn't what had caught their attention in the first place, though the gods know Morgana's been making enough noise about Emrys for ten sorcerers.

There's a stream a ways off the main path; they let the horses drink, wiping wet cloths over the animals' necks, down their chests and between their buttocks to help them cool off. Merlin narrowly misses being kicked in the knee when he reaches too far and brushes the cloth against his mare's udder. 

"Someone's touchy," Elyan laughs, and Merlin flicks the cloth with a snap of his wrist. It sends a spray of dirty water at Elyan, who yelps in surprise before throwing his own cloth at Merlin's head. 

Grown men they may be, but adulthood hasn't bled the mischief from them, and it's several minutes before they pause for breath, shirts soaked, water and tears of laughter streaming down their faces. Merlin's the first to sober, though he keeps a faint smile on his face as he says, "We should get going."

Elyan sighs, and nods. They resettle their saddles, tighten the girths and remount. Merlin glances at the slice of bright, hazy sky that trails above the road, and hopes the thunderstorm this heat will bring holds off until they're settled for the night.

They make the crossroads at dusk, splashing through the newly-made muck on the road. The storm had been brief, but fierce, and they're both soaked to the skin. There's a fair-sized village here, where the Near Southern Road meets the Nemeth-Escetia, and faint strips of light from many windows crisscross Elyan's figure as he leads them to the inn. Merlin lets his gaze linger on the eastern path, but of course there's nothing to see but trees, and more mud. Ealdor might as well lie across the seas.

The young boy sitting near the inn door, whittling intently by the light that spills out the windows, says there are rooms available still, and offers to take their horses to the stable. After sharing a speculative glance with Merlin, Elyan declines for both of them, and asks the boy to show the way, instead. Perhaps they're being paranoid, but there's no sense risking either their safety or the horses' health by being lazy. 

There are several other animals resting in stalls under the long, door-less shed the boy points them to, none as fine as Camelot's purpose-bred mounts. The old plow horse that seems to be doubling as a palfrey calls to them, and the donkey down the aisle brays in response.

"I hate that sound," Elyan says with a shudder as he leads his horse into a stall. Merlin used to wonder that the former blacksmith didn't take offense at being given a gelding to ride - some nobles are adamant about riding only stallions - but he's seen how much more sensible the horse is, and how well he responds to Elyan, no matter the circumstances.

"Really?" he asks, as he strips the tack from his mare. She looks like she's ready to have a nice roll, even though the stall is on the small side, and he knows from experience that she'll go down with her saddle on if she gets impatient. "I think it's hilarious."

Elyan shrugs, slipping the bridle from the gelding's head. "Sets me on edge, makes my teeth grind."

"Like when Cook runs her good ladle against the slate set over the kitchen hearths," Merlin realizes. "That's the most painful sound I've ever heard."

"A close second to the donkey," Elyan asserts, and hitches his saddle over the stall door. "Any chance you could speed this up with magic?" he whispers. "I'm starving."

Merlin squints thoughtfully. There's nobody here with them - Merlin's kept his magic on point all day, and he can tell there's not a man, woman or child any closer to them than the inn door, and the closest magic users at least an hour away. "All right, stand back. They don't always like this, at first." When Elyan's out in the aisle way, Merlin lets his magic out to greet their mounts. The mare knows what happens next, and her ears prick forward eagerly. The gelding snorts, distrustful, then sighs and lower his head as the magic works its way over his coat. His upper lip twitches rapidly, as if he's trying to groom a herd mate. The mare, too, looks nothing like her normal, dignified self as her coat dries and her itchy spots get a good scratching.

Merlin spends many intent minutes on the horses - they deserve a through rub-down after two days of galloping - while Elyan gathers up their bedrolls and saddle bags, stows their tack, and stretches the kinks out of his back. When Merlin's done, both horses fall into a contented doze, and he follows Elyan back to the inn.

"That were fas'," the whittling boy comments as he opens the door for them.

"We're just that good," Elyan says as they walk in, but Merlin hears the boy mutter something unkind. He hopes the child won't venture to the barn, discover a pair of illogically dry, spotless steeds, and raise the alarm against magic.

The boy seems to think about it, but a drizzle starts up again just then, and Merlin feels him settle down under the awning, knife grrp-grring against his uncooperative bit of wood. 

There's a surprising variety of food on offer, and Elyan says that this is common at most crossroads, where merchants bring an assortment of meats, fish and vegetables to trade. Here, especially, where trade from three wealthy kingdoms meets, the choices are plentiful. Whatever one may think of King Lot's tactics, there is no doubt he's done better by Escetia than Cenred ever tried to.

They have money enough between them - almost too much, if they mean to pass as simple travelers - so they splurge a little. Elyan orders a fine, smoked fish from the Seas of Meredor, and Merlin takes the roast fowl with mushrooms. The innkeeper nods approvingly, and their cups are kept conspicuously full by two smiling barmaids. Merlin would worry about getting drunk, but he's learned that when his magic's up, it seems to burn the alcohol from his veins, not unlike fire consuming pitch. It makes him feel lighter, like the first night's cup of mead, with a pleasant, rippling warmth throughout that makes him think of dragons breathing flame. His mind stays sharp as crystal.

Elyan's dug determinedly into his meal, and Merlin's too hungry to talk, so they eat in comfortable silence, the heat of the inn's huge fireplace slowly drying out their clothes. As he spoons mushroom gravy over his meat, Merlin reaches out idly, and tests the defenses of the magic users coming up the road.

There are three of them, and two don't seem to notice Merlin at all, but the third takes an irritable swipe at him. Merlin dodges, but doesn't retreat. He's fairly sure he knows who it is.

Indeed, a moment later, a familiar voice murmurs, _You have much to learn, Emrys. I should not be able to tell that it is you._

_Yes, I've been lounging idly all these years,_ Merlin shoots back, _and not availing myself of the many magical study opportunities that Camelot has to offer._

_Such bitterness,_ Alator muses, and he sounds... unsurprised. _I will teach you what I can, in the time we have._

Merlin blinks, thrown. Despite his distrust of the man, he can't resist the offer _That would be... appreciated._

There's a mental guffaw. _Indeed. You're a good man, Emrys_ the sorcerer says, approving. _I can tell that you do not trust me, and yet you are willing to take a chance._

_Well, if you betray me, I can always crush you to dust,_ Merlin points out.

Another guffaw. Merlin hadn't thought Alator had such a ready sense of humor. _There is that_ , the sorcerer agrees. He doesn't offer platitudes about his loyalty, and Merlin's not sure whether to appreciate that, or worry.

_Who are your friends?_ he asks instead. The man and woman traveling with Alator still don't seem to have noticed anything amiss.

_Fellow travelers,_ Alator says with blatantly false innocence, and then, _The woman is a healer of my recent acquaintance. The man - I do not believe he is even aware that we two have magic. He has some affinity for growing things, and travels with a cart of vegetables to trade. He fell in with us at the last village._

_Do you think the woman trustworthy?_ Merlin asks. 

_I believe so. She has heard that Emrys sides with Camelot, and she has family in the lower town. She hopes to offer her services to your cause._

When did our destiny become a cause? Merlin wonders. Before he has time to say anything, Alator continues. _Others make their way to Camelot, as well. There are three sorcerers and a warlock a day's travel behind me, and another small host gathering for the journey just inside Nemeth._ He pauses significantly. _Magic is coming to Camelot, whether your king wants it or not._

_Yes, I've noticed,_ Merlin replies, sardonic. _I've learned who's after me. If you're not too tired when you arrive, we should discuss it._

_Will I get a hint, at least?_ Alator asks, with equal sarcasm. _I can walk and think at the same time, I assure you._

Merlin sighs. _I'm eating,_ he says, _and I'd like to do it in peace._ Still, how often has he gotten what he wants, lately? _What do you know of the White Order? ___

There's a telling silence. _Eat your dinner, Emrys. We will speak when I reach you._

Wonderful, Merlin thinks. Just what I wanted to hear.

Elyan stares in confusion when Merlin tells him that Alator is near. "How do you-" At Merlin's raised eyebrow, he breaks off and chuckles. "I should stop being surprised."

"No, don't," Merlin says. "It's good for my ego."

Elyan laughs louder at that, and they share an easy moment, which Merlin ruins grudgingly. "We should go up," he murmurs. "It's better if we're not seen with him."

Elyan nods, and rises. "I'll take our things up, if you want to square the bill."

Merlin pays for the food, deflecting the innkeeper's curiosity with bland, nondescript answers, and a few flat-out lies. He's caught out a bit on the matter of the horses, though.

"My sons tells me you have fine mounts," the innkeeper nudges. "Hasn't seen the like since a Camelot patrol came through a week ago. He's a good judge of horseflesh, my boy is."

Merlin can't help but wince. The patrol that had been butchered - they would have been passing through here a few days hence, in a loop from the Far Southern Road, down the Nemeth-Escetia and back north on the Near Southern. "Yes, they're Camelot horses," he says. "We've business further south."

"Not messengers," the man ventures. "Brightly says they're not built to run."

They've run plenty fine, Merlin wants to retort, indignant on behalf of his stout-hearted mare, but all he says is, "Court business."

The innkeeper stares expectantly, but Merlin looks pointedly to the change in his hand, which the man gives over with a sigh. "Good sleep, then," he wishes Merlin, and moves down to where one of the barmaids is waiting for refills.

They've almost settled for the night, stretched out in their bedrolls on the two small pallets in the room - both of which Merlin's magicked free of lice and fleas - when there's a quick, firm knock on the door. Merlin rises, feels around with his magic to make sure there's no one else in the hall, and lets Alator into the room.

"Impressive wards," is what the sorcerer says in greeting. "Gaius has not been as remiss as I thought in your tutelage."

"Why yes, I've been wonderful, thank you," Merlin drawls in what he knows to be a decent imitation of Arthur. "And how are you?"

Alator smirks, his piercing eyes fixing on Elyan like a hawk on a rabbit. "Your friend?" he asks.

"Sir Elyan, a Knight of Camelot," Merlin says, rolling his eyes. "Either you'll get on well with Kilgharrah, or he'll eat you in a blind rage."

"Time will tell," Alator intones, like he knows something Merlin doesn't about the dragon.

"The friends you keep, Merlin," Elyan muses, eyeing Alator dubiously. "Let's get on with this. I'd like a decent night's sleep."

Merlin directs Alator to sit at the only table in the room, and takes the other chair. Elyan perches on the edge of his pallet, sword unobtrusive, but close to hand. 

"So, the White Order," Alator begins after a tense silence. "What have you been told?"

"Not much," Merlin hedges. "Fill me in."

The priest eyes him knowingly, but nods. "An early, breakaway sect of the Catha, they are, and the only ones who hold faithfully to most of our rituals. Their magic is indistinguishable from our own. The rampant wolf device... several of the bastard sects use it, in differing forms, but the White Order was the first to adopt it."

"What does it stand for?" Merlin asks.

Alator looks at him steadily for a long moment, unblinking. "You," he says at last.

"Emrys, you mean?" Merlin counters. He's had years to get used to this 'Emrys' thing, and it still doesn't come easily to him. He really doesn't like the idea that so many people are so invested in the idea of Emrys, the saviour of magic, without knowing who's behind the name. He knows the Druids, at least, have found him wanting. 

"You are Emrys," Alator is saying, as if reading Merlin's thoughts. "You cannot hide from your destiny much longer."

"Hide from my destiny?" Merlin echoes, sudden fury flushing his face. "What the hell do you know about it? You'd barely heard of Emrys before you kidnapped Gaius! Everything I've done since I came to Camelot has been to fulfill destiny!"

Alator is leaning back in his chair, looking - a little worried, actually, and Merlin realizes that he's looming over the table, half into the man's space. He settles back into his seat and growls, "You have no idea what I've given up for this bloody destiny."

"Forgive me," the man says, relaxing slightly, though still wary. "It is true that I do not know the whole of your story. Nevertheless, the time of free magic approaches, and what word there is of you among magic users speaks not of daring acts, but of stealth and caution. It is not... it is not what was told of, in the prophecies, not as I have heard them. People are growing impatient. It is one of the reasons why they begin to rally."

Merlin stares. "I didn't choose this!" he snaps. "I'm doing the best that I can."

"But soon you will have help," Alator replies, "and it will be time to do better."

Merlin looks away, breath choking in his throat, magic trembling under his skin in a maelstrom of emotion: indignation, rage, helplessness, fear, but mostly rage, sudden rage at the insistence that he must give _more_ , when he's been giving everything he can for years, and leaving nothing for himself. 

The candles around the room are flaring dangerously, like miniature dragon's flames. Merlin swallows, draws a shaky breath, and reels in the magic that's starting to run wild around him. That's the danger of leaving it on edge - it slips free of his grasp at any provocation. He breathes in again, and exhales his fury. There is no point in getting angry. Things are as they are. He will do what is required, because he must. 

Merlin turns back to Alator, ignoring his startled gaze, and Elyan's worried one. "The White Order," he prompts. "Tell me more."

Alator nods, almost deferentially, and continues where he left off. "The rampant wolf symbolizes Emrys, freed from the chains of the lustful king, ready to do battle for magic. The White Order was formed around a vision that showed Emrys trapped in thrall to a lecherous tyrant, bound to follow him even unto death. In order for magic to rise again in Albion, Emrys must be freed to follow his own will, and his own heart." The priest pauses, as if to let that sink in - though it's not nearly enough time, in Merlin's opinion ( _Lecherous tyrant??_ Really?) - and then goes on. "The Order's followers have waited for centuries to complete this self-appointed task, speaking the story down through the generations. They knew when you were born, as the Druids did, and whatever signs or portents they've awaited have been marked. They will stop at nothing to free you from your king's service."

"This doesn't make any sense," Merlin protests. "My destiny lies _with_ Arthur."

"As I said, this all appears to be based on a vision. Visions need not come to pass. Prophecies can prove false." Alator regards Merlin gravely for a moment, and then says quietly, "Destiny itself can be broken, Emrys, if one is determined enough. No matter what you have been told, _nothing_ is set in stone."

"I know that," Merlin says, trying not to shudder at the thought that he might _fail_. "I've always been under the impression that the best path for Albion - for magic - lies with Arthur. That this is what all the prophecies declare. Demand, even."

Alator shrugs. "The preponderance of them, yes. There have always been detractors to the idea, though, and alternate paths that might be taken to achieve the same goal, or a similar one. Morgana is but one of many who do not care if a united Albion rises; the return of magic is their only concern. Let the kingdoms battle as they will, and magic shall reign over all."

"If you already have power, you won't want to give it up for the benefit of others," Elyan muses, "especially if they've spent twenty-odd years trying to kill you for it. Too many of the kingdoms have come to fear magic because of what Uther did. Of course magic users won't trust Uther's son to do right by them, especially when there are competing prophecies." 

"And with Arthur making little move to change things," Merlin continues with a sigh, "all they see is proof that their way is the only one that will accomplish anything."

"Now you begin to see why you must act?" Alator asks, intent, insistent. "Our people rally to you, but if you do nothing, they will fall away, and Morgana's ilk will rule."

"Why do you care?" Merlin asks, finally laying out the core of his distrust. "You're a powerful man. You'd be able to live as you like."

"I told you when we met," Alator says, clipped and angry, "that I knew what it was to be feared and hunted because I had magic - because of a thing I was born to, a force that I will serve until the day I die. But you know as well as I what it means to wield magic as power. You know how it feels to bend it against its natural lay. Does it not exhaust you? Even you? _Especially_ you, who are a creature of magic? Does it not wear you down, drag on your very bones like plumb iron? Tell me, Emrys, will you live the rest of your life this way? Because I refuse to. Not if there is a better path."

It's not a revelation to Merlin, that there are others who can feel the way magic contorts when ill-used, how it grates and drags and all but begs to be released. It's another reason he keeps himself closed off; the pulsing wrongness of it hurts like bruises in his bones.

What surprises him is the raw passion and honesty of Alator's words. It's hard to remember that this man stood ready to kill Gaius for his knowledge, when Merlin's magic wants to reach for him in sympathy. 

"You serve the balance," Merlin recalls, "and power is the embodiment of imbalance."

"So you understand," Alator says. "I do not expect you to trust, but you _must_ understand."

They regard each other with something like acceptance, and perhaps a hint of new respect. Merlin wonders at how rarely he's felt this sense of shared knowing, even kinship, over magic, with anyone but Kilgharrah. 

It aches like a knife wound, thinking of what he's missed out on, all these years.

Merlin rises early, well before sun-up, and goes to feed the horses. The boy, Brightly, is already there, throwing hay and mucking out. 

"They look good," the lad says in lieu of greeting, nodding to where the mare and gelding press against their stall doors, eager for Merlin to do his job as 'Bringer of Food.' "Figured they'd be filthy, still, little time as you took."

"Didn't Elyan say," Merlin chides, digging into the saddle bag he's brought down for the morning's grain rations, "that we're just that good?"

The mare calls out, as if in agreement, and Merlin hurries to dump the grain into the manger before she starts banging on the door.

"Don't got to be smug about it," Brightly mutters, and shuffles on down the row with his wheelbarrow. 

Merlin rolls his eyes, and goes to check the horses' legs. Everything looks good, and he's glad Elyan suggested using magic last night. The mare's hind legs stock up sometimes, if she's left in a stall after a hard ride. Merlin worries that one day it will cause the stablemaster to sell her on, and wonders if he'll ever have enough saved up to buy her. Almost everything he makes goes to his mother in Ealdor, or to Gaius to help with their upkeep. 

Gwaine likes her, too. Maybe Merlin can convince him to help out...

He's pulled from his musings by a twinge of magic in the upper story of the inn. It doesn't feel like it came from his and Elyan's room - Elyan seems to be sleeping soundly, still - but Merlin abandons the horses to their breakfast and goes to check it out, all the same.

There are some few sounds of life within the rooms Merlin passes, but for the most part, the inn's guests are still abed. He creeps to the end of the hall, where he felt the magic, and stops to listen. 

A woman is humming, dressing for the day, it sounds like, and though he can feel that she has magic - not enough that he'd know, if he wasn't so open to it - there is no hint of unease about it. This must be the healer Alator had arrived with, Merlin thinks, and slips back into his room before someone comes out of theirs and calls him on his odd behavior.

He debates on the day to come as he packs up his bedroll and the few spare bits of clothing he's brought along. It had been decided last night that they would meet up with Alator a ways west of the crossroads, and cut back north through the woods, but after that... Should they let the horses rest, and use magic to cover the day's distance? Will the White Order sense that, if Merlin casts the spell? Perhaps it would be better for Alator to do so, or simply take himself onward, leaving Merlin and Elyan to travel as they are expected to. They must meet up with Kilgharrah once more - now, before they reach Camelot, because while Merlin's trust in Alator's motives has grown, he knows the priest's ultimate master will always be magic, not Arthur. He cannot predict all the ways their alliance might dissolve, if the circumstances change. Kilgharrah will see the possibilities more clearly than Merlin. 

The smell of frying meat comes wafting under the door. Someone strides past the room and down the stairs. As the sun creeps, pale-yellow, into the room, the inn begins to come alive. Merlin sets aside his worries, tightens up his pack, then moves to wake Elyan. 

They eat a quick breakfast, pay for their lodging, and make for the stables, not acknowledging Alator as they pass him and his temporary traveling companions. Merlin notes both the man and woman's faces, in case he should run across them in Camelot. They seem a decent sort.

"Leaving already?" Brightly asks, back at his post outside the front door. His piece of wood has acquired a crude shape - an animal head of some sort, just about the right size to fit as a knife handle in a young boy's hand.

"We've business south of here," Elyan says, "and must be about it." He deliberates for a moment, then continues. "Don't be surprised if the patrol from Camelot is late this week."

Brightly's eyes go wide. "What happened?" he demands, eager for news. "Were they ambushed?"

Elyan's face doesn't change, but Merlin can see his fists clench at his sides. "They will share what news there is when they pass through," the knight hedges. "Merlin says you cared for our horses this morning. Thank you for that." He pulls a few coins from his pouch and hands them to the boy, even though they've already paid his father for the horses' board. "It's always nice to run across a lad who properly appreciates the worth of a horse."

Brightly grins at the praise, and chirps, "Thank you, m'lord!" as he pockets the coins.

Elyan smiles kindly and shakes his head. "I'm no lord."

Brightly shrugs. "You talks like one, and tips better. Good enough for me."

That startles a laugh out of Merlin and Elyan, both, and Brightly grins happily as they mock-bow to him before moving on. 

Alator meets them as agreed, half a league west along the Nemeth-Escatia Road, appearing out of the trees like a ghost, startling the horses. 

"Funny," Elyan grumbles. "What other tricks do you have?"

"You'll see," Alator replies smoothly. "Now, Emrys, what have you decided?"

"That you need to stop calling me 'Emrys,' for one," Merlin huffs. "It's really not something that needs overhearing, right now."

"True enough," Alator concedes. "And our means of travel?"

Merlin glances to Elyan, and says, "Can you get us all half a day's distance north?"

Alator quirks an eyebrow. "I can," he allows. "It will be noticed."

"Better you than me, though, right?" Merlin asks. "If they find me now..."

"Indeed."

They'd discussed their options the night before, and come to the conclusion that Merlin would have to meet the Order on his terms, with some sort of proof that his servitude is voluntary. They hadn't been able to think of what that proof might be, though, and Merlin is not inclined to rest on his powers of persuasion alone, in the face of the tale he's been told. He still hasn't figured out what the Order can possibly mean by calling Arthur 'lustful' or 'lecherous.'

If the castle rumor mill has even half the right of it, Arthur is quite the opposite of either of those terms, despite that always-open door between the royal chambers.

Merlin's not sure if he should feel sad for Gwen, or traitorously hopeful for himself. 

Alator begins to weave the travel spell, and Merlin watches, fascinated... and begins to frown. "Wait," he says, finally, "why don't you just-" He stops, because he can't explain how exactly to do the spell he knows, but it's much easier than what Alator is doing. 

The priest pauses in his casting, eyebrow raised curiously. "This is the best way to move so many at once."

Merlin bites at his lip, shaking his head. "Why would you actually move us, when all you have to do is... open the door, and let us move ourselves?"

Alator stares at him. "That means tampering with the very fabric of the world. You cannot tell me you have tried this?"

Merlin blinks. "I always do it that way."

Alator snorts, incredulous. "And what else can you do, _Emrys_?" he mocks. "Stop time, perhaps?"

"Well, just about," Merlin confirms, and watches shock slacken the priest's face.

"I hate to interrupt," Elyan says after a moment of bewildered silence, "but we need to get off the road. Someone's bound to come by, soon."

Alator shoots a peculiar glance at Elyan, as if he cannot believe that the knight does not understand the significance of what he's just heard. "Unfortunately, Emrys, we mere mortals require more conventional routes to our goals." He squints at Merlin, and ventures, "You _do_ know what the word 'emrys' means, do you not?"

Merlin frowns, and looks away. "Yes. Yes, I know." He's been trying not to think about it since he found the root in an old translation of the western tongues. The whole concept seems... terrifyingly lonely.

Alator does not reply, but goes on with the spell. Merlin watches intently. He's going to have to learn how to leave it hanging like that, and pick up where he left off without the magic dissipating, or shifting into something unintended.

Elyan's watching Merlin worriedly, clearly having gleaned that Merlin's troubled by the conversation, even if the details of why elude him. "All right?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Merlin says, offering a smile that is not entirely fake and brittle. 

Soon the spell is finished: between one blink and the next, they and the horses are standing on a hillside, well within an obviously ancient wood.

"The magic in this place will help to conceal our arrival," Alator says when Merlin shoots him a questioning look. "There was a shrine of the Old Gods here once, before Uther became king of this land."

Merlin lets his gaze wander for a moment. The trees are old and gnarled, the ground crisscrossed with rotting, lichen-mottled trunks. Shrubs and saplings reach for what light breaks through the dense canopy. To their left, stone rubble and a hint of wild magic mark where the shrine had stood.

There is a sense of peace and rightness about the place, though, as if whatever happened here has been forgotten, or forgiven, and the forest is content in its natural pattern of death and renewal.

"Ride with me, Alator," Elyan offers. "My horse will bear the weight more easily."

Alator dips his head in a brief nod, and lets Elyan give him a hand up. He is surprisingly limber for a man his age, and Merlin wonders if he's younger than he looks, or trained in more than just magic.

They ride, not exactly hard, but with a determination to reach the place where Merlin and Elyan had camped two nights previous. The going is slower for Elyan's horse having to carry two, and for the caution Alator insists they exercise - looking well ahead for magical signatures and traps. Merlin strains his senses at every stop, but nothing feels different from the day before. If the Order knows his whereabouts, they aren't ready to confront him.

There are several hours left before sunset when they pause at the trail that leads to the campsite. They've been back on the main road since lunchtime, the need for haste outweighing the desire to avoid other travelers. Elyan gauges the height of the sun above the horizon - what little he can see of it through the trees - and says, "We should keep moving. There are a couple of good places to camp further up the road. The more ground we cover today, the more leeway we have tomorrow."

Alator nods. "It would be preferable to minimize the use of magic as we approach Camelot. It is there that the Order will keep the closest watch."

They both turn to Merlin, expectant, as if awaiting a command. Merlin realizes with a start that they will make camp here, against their better judgment, if he tells them to. 

It isn't that he hasn't taken charge before, in times of crisis. He remembers how readily the knights had deferred to him the last time Camelot was attacked. This seems different, somehow. Then, his had been the only solid plan they'd had, and no time for debate. He'd led by default, and only briefly. Here, his current companions have the luxury of contemplation, and to remember that, among them, he technically ranks the lowest - a servant against a knight and a priest. 

When it had been just him and Elyan, friends, of an age, and Merlin with more knowledge about their predicament, he hadn't felt odd taking the lead. Now, with a man twice his age and experience deferring to him, Merlin begins to get an inkling of how Arthur must feel.

"Let's ride on," he agrees, and knows that this is the easiest decision he's going to make in the days to come.

Alator gazes up at Kilgharrah with undisguised reverence. "It is an honor," he says, giving a deep bow.

Kilgharrah dips his head in response. "A pleasure to renew my acquaintance with the Catha," he rumbles. "More so when at least one of you has pledged loyalty to Merlin."

"There are many among my brothers who have sworn themselves to Emrys' aid," Alator says. "The balance of magic will be served best under his guidance."

Merlin doesn't like what Alator seems to be implying - he does _not_ want to be responsible for guiding magic, thank you; keeping Arthur safe is work enough - but the conversation moves on before he can figure out how to ask a question without making himself look any more ignorant than he already is.

The priest and the dragon are exchanging news now, and seem largely oblivious to him, so Merlin moves cautiously to where Aithusa is regarding Elyan with frank curiosity. The little dragon's head tilts this way and that, tracing the path of Elyan's hands as the knight builds a campfire. When Elyan sits back to pull out his flint and steel, Aithusa creeps forward, examines the pile of wood carefully, and sets it alight with one judicious puff of flame. 

Elyan jumps, startled, but the baby looks very proud, so what he says is, "Impressive. Where were you last week when I had to light one in the rain?" 

Merlin smiles, and kneels at the outermost edge of the light. Aithusa shoots him a suspicious glare, but doesn't scamper off, so he takes it as an improvement. When Elyan moves to sit near him, Merlin shakes his head and gestures at the little dragon. Elyan settles where he is, and Aithusa clambers into his lap, trilling happily.

Scratching the baby under the chin, Elyan murmurs, "Does he understand human speech yet?"

"A few words," Merlin says. "He's still learning the dragon tongue. If he were a human child, I'd say he'd be about a five-year-old."

"Why's he avoiding you? If you want to talk about it, I mean." 

Aithusa seems ignorant of the conversation, curling into a loose ball, his head pillowed on one of Elyan's thighs. Merlin regards him sadly for a moment before saying, "He healed someone who was dying. Someone who- well, it would have made our lives simpler if he hadn't done it, but he wasn't to know that. When I heard, I argued about it with-" He tips his head toward Kilgharrah. The Great Dragon's name is one of the first words Aithusa had learned. "He took it to mean I was angry with him, too, and hasn't spoken to me since. He doesn't understand why saving a life might be a bad thing."

Elyan ponders this for a while. "I can't think of too many people we'd be better off without. Was it a sorcerer?"

Merlin glances to Aithusa, but the little dragon is dozing peacefully, a thin wisp of smoke trailing from his tiny snout. "It was Morgana," Merlin whispers, tensing - this is another word Aithusa knows well - but there is nary a twitch in response.

Elyan's eyes have widened in shock, of course. "That's how you knew she was alive," he whispers back, looking down at the napping dragon in consternation.

"He didn't know what she'd done," Merlin explains, "only that she was hurt, and he was in a position to help. He's not to blame for anything." He leaves out that if there is any blame to be had, it lies with Kilgharrah, who is far too fond of letting his infant charge wander loose, unsupervised, for days at a time. Kilgharrah says it is the way of his kind, as young dragons are quite capable of caring for themselves, but Merlin's reasonably certain that Camelot is not the sort of land in which a young, magical anything should be wandering unescorted. "I've tried to explain that I'm not upset with him, but he just won't listen. I think... I think I've disappointed him."

Elyan grimaces in sympathy. Aithusa sleeps on.

Kilgharrah calls Merlin aside before he leaves, and says, **He is as trustworthy as he will get. If anything should turn him from your side, it will be enough to shift destinies, and you will see it coming long before he leaves you.**

That sounds vague and alarmingly portentous; typical, Merlin thinks. **How will I know what I'm looking at?**

Kilgharrah eyes him as if he's a bit dim. **Listen to the magic, young warlock.**

Merlin watches the two dragons lift into the night sky, Aithusa's rapid, almost frantic wingbeats a sharp contrast to Kilgharrah's smooth, graceful flight. Just before they disappear from sight, he thinks he sees the silver speck of Aithusa's profile cling to the crown of Kilgharrah's head, stealing a ride through the cold, turbulent air above.

Merlin heads back toward the campsite, where Elyan has brought the horses - understandably terrified of the dragons - back into the clearing, and Alator is casting wards for the night. 

"You should use as little magic as possible," the priest says when he's done with the spells. Merlin prods them gently, just to see how they compare to his, and Alator huffs, "You are as contrary as a child. I'm surprised the Order hasn't found you, already."

Merlin shrugs, and leaves the wards alone. "If they were really looking for me out here, they would have gotten to me before I reached you. I used plenty of magic on the way south."

Alator frowns thoughtfully. "It is possible that they are focusing their energies on the citadel. And," he allows, somewhat mulishly, Merlin thinks, "it is true that your smaller efforts are... indistinct against the magic of the earth. You might as well be a wood nymph."

Merlin grins. "I'll take that as a compliment. Wood nymph magic is beautiful."

"Yes," Alator agrees, almost pleasantly, "yes it is."

They make good time the next day, hindered by neither magic nor other travelers. Merlin's sure that word of the massacred patrol has spread far enough by now to keep all but the most desperate or determined souls off the roads. They stop for lunch at a well-used wayside, though they are the only ones there all the while, and Merlin figures they'll make Camelot not long after nightfall. 

"What are we going to tell Arthur?" Elyan asks as they divide up the last of their provisions, voicing the thought that's been nagging at Merlin all day. Alator raises a pointed, inquiring brow, and Merlin feels the weight of things resettling on his shoulders.

"What we told him before," he answers. "Alator knows who the attackers are, what they want, and how to contact Emrys. Beyond that..." he shrugs, defeated. "I still don't know how to prove that I serve Arthur of my own will." He turns to Alator. "There must be spells-"

"As I said before," Alator interrupts, "not all mind control is accomplished through magic, and there is no spell I know of that will reveal such influence. No, whatever proof you give must be through action; neither your words nor your magic will be believed."

Merlin's surprised at how it burns him to think that his magic, the deepest and most honest reflection of himself, somehow isn't good enough to vouch for his state of mind. "Then we have to wait and see what Arthur does," he says, pushing aside his bitterness. "Maybe..." trails off, forgetting what he meant to say as a vague, desperate plan begins to coalesce. Perhaps there is a way for his magic to prove his free will, after all. 

It will cost Merlin dearly, but it's his own fault the price will be so high. He's been borrowing on credit for too long, and it's past time the balance came due.

Nightfall catches them an hour and more out of Camelot, a bit later than Merlin had guessed it would. They press on, riding by the tree-scattered light of a waxing moon, entrusting the road to the horses, and their safe passage to magic. Merlin can feel the wary eyes of many creatures watching them go by - hares and faeries and owls, nymphs, foxes, sprites and even a lone Sidhe. The amount of magic in the woods around Camelot astounds him. One might almost miss the fact that magic was banned here, if one didn't venture out of the forest.

"There is more magic here than when last I visited," Alator comments from his perch on the back of Elyan's horse. They are walking, letting the horses get their wind for one last push to the citadel, and waiting for the moon to come further overhead.

Merlin frowns at the casual way the priest talks of Gaius' kidnapping, but Alator's words are intriguing. "I know it hasn't always been like this, but I didn't think it had changed so rapidly in such a short time," Merlin says. "Is it because of the Order, do you think?"

"Hardly," Alator replies with a derisive snort. "If anything, it is the increased magic that drew the Order. Change is coming to these lands. Magic returns like a rising tide - it is creeping in, slowly, steadily, but before your king realizes it, he will be submerged. It will reach everywhere - as it was meant to. This place will heal from the wounds Uther Pendragon gave it."

Merlin has heard such sentiments before, from Kilgharrah, from enemy sorcerers, from Gaius. It feeds his sense of purpose, even as he recoils from the implication that he's somehow meant to be responsible for all the magic that flows through Camelot. 

They ride on in silence for a brief while, and then Elyan says, "At a good canter, we'll be there before the moon reaches its peak.” Only a hint of his smirk is visible in the darkness. “Best to get our stories straight.”

Merlin takes the lead, his mare cognizant of the way home, and eager to get there. He casts his magic far afield - almost to the castle walls, now - and recoils as it reaches the site of the Order's attack. The magic there is thick and ominous, not disturbed at all by his passive probing. Camelot's men still lie where they were cut down, though cairns have been erected over the bodies. Wooden symbols of the New Religion are staked into the ground beside each pile of stones, standing in vain defiance to the formless, tangible power of the Old.

Merlin shudders, and urges the horse to run faster.

They are challenged three times before they even get to the city gates, the guards casting wary gazes over Elyan's passenger before allowing them to pass. At the gates, they are asked to dismount, and the captain of the watch sends a message to Sir Leon.

"King's orders, Sir Elyan," he says with a hint of apology. 

"No need to explain, Draga," Elyan replies. "I understand all too well." They share a sympathetic look. One of Draga's friends had been on the ill-fated patrol, too, Merlin thinks. 

Leon rides up with Percival, nodding to Elyan and Merlin as he regards Alator with distrust. "You are Alator, a priest of the Catha?" he demands as soon as he's dismounted. Percy stays on his horse, looming over the group like a warning.

Alator is staring at Leon stonily. "I am."

"You will perform no magic while in Camelot unless it is necessary to find the men we are looking for,” Leon reels off. “If such is the case, you will explain your actions to Gaius, who is the Court Physician, and gain his permission before proceeding. So long as you adhere to this condition, your safety is as assured as that of any law-abiding citizen of Camelot who is in service to the crown. Quarters have been prepared for you near the Court Physician's rooms. You will have the opportunity to discuss payment for your services tomorrow. If these terms are not acceptable, you will be escorted from these lands immediately. What say you?"

Alator raises an eyebrow, not unlike Gaius in expressing his disdain, but gives a single, sharp nod. "The terms are acceptable."

Leon's face betrays nothing, and Percy's, when Merlin glances over, is equally unenlightening. "Very well. The king is waiting to meet you," Leon says. "Follow me." 

They remount, and ride at a good clip through the city, Merlin and Elyan's horses tossing their heads impatiently and jerking at the reins despite their obvious exhaustion. They clatter into the courtyard, which is more thoroughly lit than usual, and slide out of their saddles - Leon and Percival smartly, Merlin, Alator and even Elyan stiffly, with relief. Stable boys are waiting for the horses, and Merlin feeds his mare the piece of carrot he's been saving all day before handing her off for her well-deserved rest.

Leon leads them to one of the small meeting chambers that the council uses for informal sessions. Percy subtly positions himself so that he's behind Merlin and Alator, but within easy reach of the stranger. Elyan strides along beside Percy; the shuffle in his gait suggests that he's as worn out as Merlin feels. Alator looks a bit drawn in the torchlight of the castle corridors, but his expression is intent, and he moves along with no apparent effort.

Merlin, for his part, has no energy for pretense. He's sore, tired, and nervous about the coming meeting. His heart is racing even though his feet are dragging. The sudden strain of reeling in magic that's spent four days ranging loose about him like a pack of hounds is making his hands tremble. He feels like it's been days since he's last eaten, instead of hours. 

He'd almost forgotten how hard it is to be magic in Camelot.

He can see Alator giving him sideways glances, though he cannot say if they are mocking or concerned; his mind stays silent, free of the other warlock's voice, and Merlin tries to focus on controlling himself in front of Arthur.

The chamber doors are open, flanked by two guards, and Leon strides in without stopping. Inside, Arthur stands at the head of a table whose sides are lined by Gaius, Geoffrey, Gwaine, Lord Kay, Lord Bedivere and, to Merlin's surprise, the smuggler Tristan. Gwen is notably absent. Merlin suspects she put up quite the argument, but Arthur's fear for her safety around a known sorcerer overrode his desire for her immediate council.

“You made good time,” the king comments. “We did not expect you for another day.”

“Luck was with us, sire,” Elyan replies. He makes an introductory gesture. “King Arthur, this is Alator, a priest of the Catha. He has been told of our troubles and has agreed to aid us.”

Arthur gives Alator a hard look. “Indeed. I thank you for the offer, priest. Sir Leon has explained the terms by which you must abide?”

“He has, sire,” Alator says smoothly, though his arch tone suggests absolutely no respect for Arthur. “I have agreed to them. I wish to aid Emrys as much as you wish to stop those who killed your men. To act against you would be... counterproductive.” He can't seem to repress a mocking smirk, and Merlin rolls his eyes when Arthur's coldly polite mask crumbles to disdain.

“Mark my words, sorcerer,” Arthur snaps. “You are only here on the word of two of my most trusted men. If you break faith with us, you will pay dearly!”

Gaius cuts in before Alator can form a retort. “My lord, I'm sure that Alator understand the precariousness of his position. We should move on to the matter at hand.” He raises a challenging brow at Alator, and gives Merlin a significant glance. “New information on the motives of the attackers has come to light.”

Alator concedes with a rueful quirk of his lips. “Let me hear it, then. Though I believe I can venture a guess.”

Merlin has to wonder how they're going to accomplish anything, with Alator's attitude. While Gaius recounts how the detail sent to erect cairns over the bodies of the patrol had found another, longer missive pinned to one of the dead, Merlin nudges the other warlock mentally. _He's the Once and Future King, you know. You could show a little respect._

_He could do likewise,_ Alator replies. 

There are all manner of things Merlin can say to that, but none of them are in any way useful, so he falls silent.

“I have the message secure in my chambers,” Gaius is saying, “where you may examine it if you like, but the gist of it is simple. The attackers don't seem to want to kill Emrys, but to save him. From Camelot,” he finishes diplomatically.

“From your king, you mean,” Alator corrects. “It is as I suspected.”

“Then you know who's responsible?” Arthur demands. “You know why they think we have him?”

Alator gives a brief nod. “I do. They are called the White Order. Their history is... irrelevant at this juncture. Their ultimate loyalty is to Emrys, and it is their perceptions upon which we must focus. What exactly does the missive say?”

“It accuses the king of having the sorcerer Emrys under his thrall,” Gaius recounts, not glancing at all in Merlin's direction, “and declares that more will die if Emrys is not released from his servitude, and given over to the care of the attackers.”

"A simplified version of the Order's motives," Alator states. "It will do for now. In short, sire," here he turns his piercing gaze to Arthur alone, "you must convince the Order that Emrys acts of his own free will, and that you do not have any hold on him other than that which he allows."

"Well, that should be easy," Arthur drawls. "He's hardly here now, is he? Even though he is sorely needed."

Alator does not reply to that, and his expression remains impassive. Merlin' sure he's smirking mockingly on the inside. Gaius looks at the floor, and Elyan's expression goes carefully blank.

Arthur doesn't seem to notice what, to Merlin, is a rather pointed silence, but goes on. "And what do you mean by 'a simplified version of the Order's motives?'"

"That, sire," Alator says, "is a matter best left for the morrow. Think on what I have said, and understand that you have far stronger bonds to Emrys than you realize. Not all are of your personal making, but it will be up to you - you and Emrys - to prove that they were forged willingly. Only then will the Order cease its vendetta."

"'Not all?'" Arthur repeats, incredulous. "None of my bonds to Emrys are of my making! I _have_ no bonds to that man."

"You do," Alator says implacably. "You do not see them all yet, but they exist nevertheless."

"Have you no other way to stop these people?" Arthur demands. "You expect me to parlay with murderers?"

"It is true that Emrys could probably destroy them," Alator allows, "but the cost and consequences..." He huffs out a frustrated breath. "I know that you have no love for magic, boy, but it is a force as natural as sunlight. When your father waged his war on magic, he created a great imbalance - one that was righted, partially, when Emrys was born." He does not raise his voice, but the intensity of it fills the room, resonant yet stifling. "To continue such destruction is a crime against nature, especially if it is Emrys whom you expect to do the killing. It is as if the prophet of your New Religion were to turn suddenly against his followers. Every time Emrys raises a hand against magic, he works against his own purpose, and he does it for _you_! He does it to protect you, boy, so that you might become the king that was foretold - so that you might bring peace to Albion at last. You would repudiate all that, for what? Open your eyes, little king, and open your mind!"

Arthur is frozen at the table, shocked and incredulous at the sudden tirade. Merlin can see the confusion on his face, and the disbelief, but it is, as ever, his anger that bursts out into words. "How dare you? Whatever nonsense your Seers told you gives you no right to accuse this kingdom, or me, of any crimes. We act to defend ourselves, and are assaulted by magic at every turn! The last time any of my men saw Emrys, he threatened to kill me! He has done nothing for Camelot!"

Alator's aquiline face flushes red, and he scowls disgustedly at Arthur. Elyan looks ready to intervene, as does Gwaine, but it is once again Gaius who steps into the breach, in a literal sense. He goes to stand between Alator and Arthur, saying, "Sire, this is getting us nowhere. Whatever Alator may believe, he does have the knowledge to help us. He is also, I would wager, quite exhausted, and," he gives Alator a pointed, mocking glare, "quite unable to control his temper. I feel it would be best if we all retired, and took up the discussion in the morning."

Arthur has visibly put himself together during Gaius' speech, and says, tightly, "Agreed. Sir Leon, Gaius, please see our... guest to his quarters. Merlin, attend me."

Merlin blinks. The suspicious tilt to Arthur's lips suggests that he wants Merlin's opinion on Alator, but Merlin can barely remember the last time Arthur actually asked his opinion on anything. He's pretty sure it was the cut of his wedding breeches.

Geoffrey, Tristan and the two lords have clustered around Arthur, while the knights are trailing out the door behind Leon. Gwaine turns to give Merlin an encouraging grin, and Elyan raises a questioning eyebrow; at Merlin's subtle nod, he follows Gwaine out the door. Merlin takes his familiar - and sorely missed - post near Arthur's left, and listens carefully to the muttered conversation of the king's advisors.

“Never seen one lose his temper like that,” Tristan is saying. “Both the ones I met were so cold they might have been made of ice. They say all the Catha are like that.”

“It follows, then, that he is passionate about ensuring a particular outcome to the situation,” Kay surmises. 

“Obviously he is here for Emrys' sake, not ours,” Bedivere muses, “but why not simply go to Emrys directly?”

“He doesn't know where Emrys is hiding anymore than this White Order does,” Arthur says. “And I suspect he's pushing for a negotiation because he knows that even together, he and Emrys are no match for the enemy.”

Geoffrey frowns. “Sire, Gaius says that the prophecies are quite clear on the matter of Emrys' unusual power. Alator himself admitted that Emrys could probably destroy the Order if he chose to act.”

“I happen to know otherwise,” Arthur says, his lip curling in regret. He takes a breath, and continues, “None know of what I am about to tell you but Gaius, the queen, and Merlin. When my father was injured on the eve of my birthday feast, I considered every possible means of saving him.” His gaze turns inwards, and he braces himself against the edge of the table, as if the weight of his memories has proven too much. “When Gaius declared that neither he, nor any physician he might send for, could do anything to save my father, I turned to magic. Gaius directed me to an old sorcerer who called himself Dragoon, and promised to heal my father in exchange for my oath that, when I became king, I would lift the ban on magic.” 

Kay and Bedivere's expressions are far more sympathetic than Merlin might have expected, but these are the two most moderate councilors of Uther's day. They are more practical, adaptable and accepting of circumstance than anyone, and have fallen easily into Arthur's circle of trusted advisors. Very few of Uther's councilors hold any real influence with Arthur.

“Needless to say,” Arthur is plowing on determinedly, “he failed to uphold his end of the bargain. At first I thought that he had acted deliberately, but Gaius later showed me an amulet that was ensorcelled to reverse healing spells. Gaius had found it around my father's neck after his death.” Arthur's voice has become wooden, his recitation of that awful time nothing but rote. “It had been placed there by Agravaine, on the orders of Morgana.” He looks up at Geoffrey, finally. “Eventually, Gaius told me that Dragoon was actually the one the Druids call Emrys. So you see, Emrys is not nearly as powerful as the world has been led to believe. Morgana defeated him with little more than a trinket.”

The others all ponder this for a long, perplexed moment, and Merlin is glad they are so absorbed, because if they were to look at him just now, he would have no explanation for the tears running down his cheeks.

Merlin is dry-eyed and composed by the time Arthur stalks out of the council chamber, but he follows after his king so slowly that he gets scolded three separate times. The fatigue that he'd managed to hold at bay during the meeting has reasserted itself doubly, and he can barely put one foot in front of the other.

When they reach Arthur's chambers, it takes Merlin several moments to register the wrongness of the scene. The fireplace is dark, despite the slight chill of the night air, and the king's nightclothes have not been laid out. In fact, George is not present at all. Gwen is likewise absent, and the connecting door to her chambers is closed.

Merlin wonders if she's angry at being left out of the meeting. What he asks is, “When did George fall ill?”

Arthur looks up from the pile of papers he's picked up from his dining table: patrol reports and stores summaries, Merlin thinks. It's that time of the month. “George isn't ill,” Arthur says. “Start the fire, already, would you? Honestly, I let you go for four days, and you completely forget your duties.”

Merlin stares - rather stupidly, he suspects - but Arthur has gone back to the reports. “And put out my nightclothes. I'd like to get to bed before the morning comes, if you don't mind.”

Baffled, Merlin stumbles through the evening routine, which is at once familiar and foreign. Arthur makes fewer comments than he would have, before his marriage, but what he does say gives the impression that there haven't been months of silence and tension between them, no cold shoulders, indifferent dismissals, and pleas, on Merlin's part, for an explanation... What he wouldn't have given for just an inkling of what he'd done wrong, where he'd tripped up to make Arthur put him at such a distance.

Merlin does his best to keep his gaze lowered while he helps Arthur dress for bed - it had been almost the first thing to go, this quiet bit of almost-intimacy between them - but he catches the king's eye accidentally now and then, and the mix of regret and contentment he sees there makes his breath catch in his throat.

He leaves with a customary, “Good night, Arthur,” his mind spinning and his heart beating a hopeful tattoo. 

George wakes Merlin early in the morning, long before the exhaustion of the previous night has melted away, and hands him Arthur's breakfast tray. “You'll be wanting to get him moving straight off, today,” the other servant advises primly. “He'd expressed a desire yesterday to attend morning training-” Arthur hasn't attended morning training but once since his marriage, “-and then there's a private council meeting, followed by a general council, lunch, audiences, and afternoon training. His lordship is also planning on touring the battlements, as well as a long private audience at dinner - presumably with the guest you and Sir Elyan rode in with last night. Gaius will also be in attendance. “

Merlin groans, sets the tray on his lap, and collapses back onto his pillow.

“None of that, now,” George admonishes, retrieving the tray, setting it aside, and pulling off Merlin's blanket. Merlin yelps at the sudden chill, and curls into a ball, one arm over his head.

“Go 'way, George,” he grumbles. “I'm too tired to move.”

George tuts disapprovingly. “One would think, Merlin, that you would take this second chance the king has given you, and prove yourself the worthy servant he believes you to be.”

Merlin shifts his arm enough to squint up at George blearily, and then remembers the look on Arthur's face the night before. His skin tingles suddenly, sending him into a sharp, full-bodied shiver, and he rolls out of bed in an effort to escape the awful mix of hope and despair that spikes through him: hope that what he'd seen had been real, and despair at knowing that he's never that lucky.

George watches him rummage for a clean shirt, and, finally seeming satisfied that Merlin will actually go do his job, heads for the door. Merlin's eyes snag on the breakfast tray as he bids the man goodbye, and he says, “Wait - this is only enough for one. What about Gwen?” 

George stops, his hand on the door latch, and says, looking rather uncomfortable, “The queen will be dining alone this morning.” He pulls the door open and slips out before Merlin can ask any more questions.

Gwen must be really angry at being kept away from the meeting last night, Merlin thinks as he finishes dressing and picks up the breakfast tray. 

That, or she's angry that Arthur's allowing Merlin to serve him as before.

It's too much to think about - Merlin's betrayal of Gwen's faith, even though he's never acted on his feelings; Arthur's desire to act as if nothing has changed, and his pleasure at having Merlin near again; his desire to protect Merlin even while he'd forced the distance between them; Gwen's hollow, false smiles; the rumors of her unsatisfied in bed. 

Merlin hopes that Gwen's just sour over the meeting, because that would be the least complicated scenario out of all the ones he envisions. 

He feels like a horrible friend, though, because deep inside, it's not the scenario he _wants _.__

Over the next few days, Merlin falls with relative ease into his old routine. He attends Arthur from morning to night, bemoans the loss of his study time, sneaks in meetings with Alator (who, true to his word, is teaches Merlin fascinating bits of magic), and does his best to avoid Gwen. The last is rather easy, as her door is always closed, and she seems to make it a point to be anywhere but where Arthur and Merlin are. She is present at the general council meeting, but says little, and leaves quickly. She takes lunch on her own, doesn't watch Arthur training as she used to before their first, tragic engagement, and sends word that he need not trouble with the public audiences, as he has much on his mind, and she is more than capable of presiding over them herself.

With each avoidance, Merlin feels worse. It's becoming clear that whatever's happened between Gwen and Arthur is serious. It doesn't help that Arthur broods and looks ashamed when he thinks nobody's watching, but smiles, almost unconsciously, whenever he locks eyes with Merlin. 

Merlin thinks his hope and guilt are going to tear him up from the inside. He shouldn't want Arthur. Hell, he'd been the one to push Arthur and Gwen together, thinking that it would make Arthur happy, and glad to see the unabashed joy on Gwen's face. He's heard a saying about the road to the underworld and good intentions, though, and this has turned into yet another paving stone on his own crooked path.

He goes to Gwen one day, not long after his return, and asks, voice cracking with trepidation, that she tell him what's gone wrong. She appraises him carefully, forehead creased in thought, and finally sighs. “Nothing you can fix, Merlin.” Then she puts a hand on his arm - the first time she's touched him in months - and says, “I've treated you horribly. No, don't-” when he starts to protest, even though it's perfectly true. “I have, and I'm so deeply sorry. You didn't deserve any of it. I just... I can't stand to talk about it right now, and there's nothing to be done. Try not to worry, Merlin. Things will settle after this business with Emrys is resolved. Maybe- maybe we could have lunch together then?”

Merlin smiles, nods, kisses her on the cheek, and feels like a worse liar than he ever has with Arthur and the magic. 

Gwen smiles at him after that, the rare times they see each other, but Elyan is more awkward, and Merlin knows she's told him the details of her fight with Arthur - and that it must have revolved around Merlin himself.

Gwen and Arthur's rift is, unfortunately, the least of Merlin's worries. The Order has not attacked again, but there is a foreboding tension in the magic around the city.

The other thing around the city is a host of new campsites. Just one day after Merlin's return, people had started building fires and pitching tents in the well-trodden bits of forest beyond the outermost gate. It's not uncommon for traders and travelers to camp outside the city walls, though Arthur has made it a point to encourage all to seek shelter within at night. Several places have been designated in the lower town, and along the walls, as sites for camping and itinerant lodgings. Three new inns have sprung up since Arthur became king. Nevertheless, many people still stay in the woods, whether through habit, or reluctance to test the new king's generosity.

What makes this new set of campers unique is that they don't appear to be moving on, and their numbers keep growing. By week's end, guards on the battlements count more than fifty camps, some secluded, some in pairs, and many grouped around a central fire ring. They report that many Druids are present, and several men who wear the same robes as Alator. There is a man with many owls, none tethered as a hunting bird might be, and there are far more cats around than can logically be accounted for.

“They're magic users,” Tristan says with his customary arrogance, though not until Arthur is out of earshot.

Gwaine is the first to brave the unusual gathering in an unofficial capacity; Percy and Elyan patrol there regularly, but never exchange more than a short greeting with anyone. He comes back with a spray of brightly colored flowers braided into his hair, a stoppered flagon of something sharp and honey-flavored - though it is decidedly not mead - and a cautious expression.

“What would you do if I told you the truth?” he asks Arthur, interrupting a meeting with Alator and Gaius. He regards the priest knowingly, and shifts as if ready to protect someone, though Merlin can't guess who.

“What do you mean, 'the truth?'” Arthur echoes. “What the hell does that mean?”

Gwaine shifts again, glancing between Alator, Gaius and Merlin, and says, “They're waiting for someone.”

Arthur scowls, his left hand drifting to his sword, which he's named Excalibur, and almost never lets out of his sight. “Emrys.”

Gwaine shrugs, but Merlin's known him long enough to see the affirmation in his posture.

Alator rolls his eyes. He's been doing that a lot lately, and Merlin's a little worried for his eyeballs, actually.

“What now?” Arthur demands, catching the gesture.

Alator shakes his head. “I will not get into this discussion with you.” He almost never calls Arthur 'sire.' “Perhaps it is time to pay your subjects a visit.”

The way he says it makes Merlin think Alator's talking to _him_ , not Arthur.

Arthur finally decides to venture into the camp, Merlin and his closest knights in tow. Gaius comes, too, under the idea that he is the only magic user - former or not - who Arthur can really trust. They debate on taking Alator along, and decide that they must: He might see something of significance.

The Order remains silent, though the tension in the magic is so high that Merlin can't sleep more than a few hours at a go. He wanders around bleary-eyed, wishing he wasn't so afraid to let his magic out inside the castle. He knows it would cut through the tension in a heartbeat, but the backlash - well, he'd never be able to explain it, even if he managed to control it. 

They venture out near lunchtime one morning, Arthur dressed in an old hunting outfit so as not to draw more attention to himself than necessary. Merlin's not sure how anybody can miss him, though. His bearing and manner, and the way (most of) the rest of them defer to him, paint Arthur as a man of consequence. No doubt someone will figure out that it's the king wandering among them all too soon.

Arthur's brought Excalibur with him, too, which, Merlin thinks, will be both a dead giveaway and an encouraging sign to any magic user skilled enough to sense the weapon's power. The dragon magic shines bright to Merlin's senses, even with his own tightly leashed. He knows there are touches of Avalon's magic as well, and even tendrils of his own, infusing in Excalibur Merlin's desire to keep Arthur safe and hale.

Leon and Percival are armed, but subtly so. Gwaine has only his strength to his aid, and Elyan has brought nothing more than a hunting knife. None wear Pendragon red, or armor of any sort. 

Merlin appreciates that this is a huge step for Arthur, venturing into a mass of what he must realize are magic users. The large number of children present probably sets him at some ease, but for the most part, he's just being brave, and taking a great deal on faith...

...and the skill of the bowmen hiding in the outermost towers. Arthur may be showing courage, but neither is he a fool. A crossbow bolt from the top of the towers will penetrate most of the way into the campsites effectively, and Arthur has no intention of straying out of that range.

Gwaine takes point, eager to return to the attentions of some lass or lad, no doubt, and Leon flanks him, wariness evident in the set of his shoulders. He's not one who finds all magic distasteful, as do many of Arthur's noblemen - his life was saved by magic, after all - but neither will he trust a magic user he doesn't know. 

There are a lot of magic users he doesn't know, here. Merlin feels almost sorry for Leon, really. And Percy, too. He'd expected Percy to accept magic easily, but there is something in his past, of which he speaks only infrequently, that has made him disdainful of magic users. Merlin hopes it won't affect their friendship too badly, in the end.

Alator and Gaius walk along beside Leon, conversing almost amiably. Despite what had passed between them, Gaius, ever the patient soul, has taken the higher ground, which Merlin's come to realize has earned him a large measure of respect from Alator. The warlock had confided to Merlin, too, that the strength of Gaius' will when he'd tried to prise out the secret of Emrys' identity had proven the physician a worthy man. Merlin wouldn't call them friends, but it's clear that Gaius is enjoying the opportunity to speak to another skilled magic user.

Arthur and Merlin walk side by side, with Percival and Elyan bringing up the rear. Merlin's rather a nervous wreck about what might happen out here, and about what Elyan might be thinking, staring at their backs all the while - what he might be reading into every glance or gesture. He really hopes Elyan hasn't said anything to Percy about it. A huge part of him is still wondering if _he's_ not the one reading too much into the situation.

Arthur looks deceptively relaxed, out to enjoy a noon stroll in the woods, to visit with the campers there and maybe buy a token for his wife. He still wears his wedding ring prominently, fiddling with it in an absent gesture of impatience or worry. It's one of the things that keeps Merlin's hopes firmly grounded. Every time he sees the ring, he remembers who put it on Arthur's finger.

There are many people moving among the tents and shelters, so little notice is taken at first, when Arthur, Merlin and the others begin to mingle cautiously with the crowd. Merlin hears it soon, though - a whisper in his mind, like the sound of a conversation in another room: _Emrys! Emrys walks among us. There he is, look! So young!_

Merlin walks on, pretending ignorance even when Gaius and Alator both turn to see his reaction. He hopes desperately that the people will not reveal him, and wonders what he was thinking in coming down here in the first place. 

Arthur has stopped to talk to a young woman whose child had tripped and fallen at his feet. He'd picked up the little boy, dusted off his tunic, and automatically assumed his 'king listening to a loyal subject' pose. The woman is saying something about how the boy had almost died of fever, and only the help of a Druid healer had saved him.

Merlin is standing off to the side, trying to look unobtrusive, and probably ending up looking like too much of a servant attending his master, when _Emrys,_ sounds in his mind again, stronger than before: an intentional contact. He turns casually, looking for the source of the voice, and sees an older Druid gazing steadily in his direction. _You will not convince the Order that your will is unfettered,_ the Druid says.

Merlin spares a moment to wonder how the Druids always know every last detail of any imminent crisis. He guesses they have either excellent seers, or very nosy ones. 

_So what do you suggest?_ he asks pointedly.

_You must prove that Arthur Pendragon is worthy of your service,_ the Druid opines. _Prove that magic will flourish under his regency._ He tilts his head toward Arthur, who is now conversing with another woman. _This is a good start._

_He is only here to learn more about Emrys,_ Merlin replies, _and to see if anyone has heard anything of the Order._

The Druid quirks an eyebrow. _His father would have had us massacred by now._

Merlin sighs. _I know this, and you know this, but there are many for whom it is not enough._

_There will always be enemies,_ the Druid agrees. _But the Order's path is not yet written. You have the power to prove the king's worth to them. You must, or your destiny will crumble._

_So I've been told,_ Merlin huffs, but the Druid is turning away; he disappears among the tents without reply.

Arthur's moving on, and Merlin follows, watching the crowd cautiously, debating on whether his magic might slip from his grasp altogether if he loosens his grip on it. The whispers continue in his mind, and he learns more about how magic users view him than he really wants to. Enough of them think he's handsome, which is balm to his pride, especially as most think he's far too young to be in charge of anything, or anyone. He wants to retort, I never asked for this, but does not. No sense encouraging the lot. They already think he's too shy, too cautious, too this, not enough of that. If he didn't know what the alternative was - Morgana, and Mordred too, eventually - he'd gladly disabuse them of the notion that he's their standard-bearer, let alone their leader. It's becoming clear, though, that he's the one with the power and influence, such as it is, to make their lives better; he's the one they've chosen. He can not shy from that; it's never been his way. Even if destiny had not written this role for him, or created him for it, he thinks would have carried on. Years of being forced to stand and do nothing while good people died have hardened his natural tenacity into unflinching determination.

A flash of color startles Merlin from his thoughts, and an afterthought of magical intent washes over him. He looks over to see flowers in Gwaine's hair again, and the knight's arms wrapped around a young woman dressed in bright, wild hues. He studies them carefully, but it's only the flowers she's magicked into being, and nothing sinister. He turns, thinking to catch up to Arthur, but sees him stopped a few strides ahead, face devoid of expression.

He realizes that Arthur had seen the magic.

Merlin hurries forward, reaching Arthur just as Alator does, but he's not sure what to do. The young king's hand is clenched on his sword, knuckles white, yet he makes no move forward to condemn the illegal act.

“Do nothing,” the Catha priest warns in a low tone. “If you retaliate here, you may not reach the castle alive.”

That shocks Arthur out of his silence. “You expect to gain my forbearance with words like those?” 

“I expect you to keep your head,” Alator retorts. “She's done nothing wrong.”

“Magic is-”

“Perfectly acceptable so long as it harms no one,” Merlin finishes, staring hard at Arthur, willing him to understand that there are people watching, listening. The intensity blanketing their huddled conversation has drawn eyes. 

Arthur glares at Merlin, then takes a surreptitious look around. As the whispers in Merlin's head grow curious, or cautious, Arthur closes his eyes, inhales a sharp breath, and turns away. “Merlin, with me.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. As if he'd been planning to go anywhere else. He moves to Arthur's side and follows him toward a sunny clearing, closer in range of the guard towers. A glance back reveals that Gwaine is watching them, arms still around his girl, mouth set in a thin, worried line. 

Alator follows them as well, and Leon turns up just as they cross into the sunlight. “Everything all right, sire?” he murmurs, taking in Arthur's cold expression.

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Keep an eye on Gwaine. Make sure he returns to the castle with us.”

Leon frowns, but nods an assent when nothing else in forthcoming, and heads back into the trees. He stops to say a word to Gaius, who is heading their way, but Merlin can't tell what it might be about.

Arthur says nothing even after Gaius has joined them, staring out into the clearing, jaw clenched. Gaius raises a questioning brow, and Merlin sends him a thought: _He saw magic. A girl spelled some flowers into Gwaine's hair._ He's not sure how to explain Arthur's reaction, because he doesn't really understand what's going through the king's mind, other than anger. Gaius doesn't seem to need further elaboration, anyway.

_Give him a few moments. It is difficult to reconcile what he has heard and seen today with a lifetime's worth of teaching,_ the old physician says.

_Alator didn't exactly help,_ Merlin decides to add, making sure the other warlock hears him. _He wouldn't have attacked her,_ he tells Alator, a little indignant on Arthur's behalf - though, in truth, his mind had flashed back to the days when Arthur _would_ have attacked without question.

_You have more faith in him than I do,_ the Catha replies, unabashed. 

Arthur turns around then, gazing back into the woods. Neither Gwaine nor his lady friend are anywhere to be seen, but Leon's distant, thin frame, alert and calm, seems to set his mind at ease. “It is hard to reconcile that acts of the Druid healers,” Arthur begins, pinning Alator with an accusatory glare, “and young, fanciful women, with the statements of a mercenary sorcerer. These people speak of healing and growth, and you threaten violence on their behalf. Which am I to believe?” 

Alator snorts. “Both. Are those who use no magic any different? Physicians and farmers, protected by knights and soldiers. Magic is but an element, like fire or water: either can bring good or ill, in sufficient force, and the absence of them is a bane, leading to death as surely as an excess.”

Arthur turns away again. “All the magic I have ever seen is tinged by blood or deceit. Every story tells of a price that must be paid. How can anyone trust such an 'element?'”

“Do not all non-magical things also have a cost?” Alator asks with surprising patience. “A body must eat, to move. To grow a crop, one must till the soil; yet, grow too much, and the soil loses its potency. There is a balance to all things - a cost for all that one desires.”

Arthur seems to flinch at that. “If the price is always blood and truth-” he begins, but Alator cuts him off.

“It is not. You perceive it thus because you have been raised to. The blood you've seen is not the price of magic, but the cost of your father's crusade.” Alator pauses, but the statement provokes no reaction, so he continues, “Deceit is the price extracted by fear. So long as your people fear ill ends and retribution, they will continue to hide the truth. You did not bring these things on your kingdom, but you perpetuate them.”

Arthur frowns sharply. “What do you propose, then? Shall I rescind the laws against magic, with no sorcerer on my side to protect my people from those who would act unscrupulously? Shall I invite attack upon the kingdom? If there is no punishment for the use of magic-”

“Punish the use of magic to commit crime,” Alator says, beginning to sound exasperated at last. “There is no law against the sword, but there is one against murder, is there not?”

Arthur doesn't answer. He waves off Alator's attempt to continue, then snags Merlin with a glance, and walks off. Merlin follows quietly, ignoring Alator's suggestions on what other examples might be offered. 

They meander out of the clearing, heading back toward the main road; the air is warm, and though a light breeze ruffles their hair, Arthur stops in the shade of the trees when they reach the edge of the wood.

“You really don't believe that magic is evil, Merlin?” he asks finally. “You don't believe that those who use it become corrupt?”

Merlin shrugs. “Is Gaius corrupt?” he returns. “He's lived longer using magic than he has without it. That girl Gwaine was with... any of these people; do you believe them all to be corrupt?”

“It does not appear that way,” Arthur concedes, “but I cannot help remembering all the times that I've been fooled by appearances.”

Merlin can't quite hold his head up at that. “What does your heart tell you?”

“That you put far too much faith in it,” is the immediate comeback. “My heart is in a wretched state at present, Merlin. Let's leave it out of this.”

Merlin looks up again, incredulous. “How can we? Arthur-”

Arthur holds a hand up, eyes insistent, and Merlin stops talking. His silence is met with something that might be a grateful quirk of the mouth, if Arthur would openly admit to ever being grateful to his manservant. “Go tell Percival that we're heading back.”

Merlin follows Arthur's gesture and sees Percy trailing them at a respectful distance. He heads over, wondering at the easy smile on the knight's face. He'd have expected worry or distrust, but Percy looks relaxed as he glances back at the campsites they've left behind. 

“Arthur's going back to the castle,” Merlin says without preamble. “You look... happy.”

Percy grins. “I met someone I used to know - from my village.” He lights up as he talks, and all but bounces on his toes. “I thought she'd- well, it doesn't matter. We talked. She didn't know I was here. She knows where some of the others are - people I believed were dead. One of them's a cousin of mine!”

Merlin grins back. “That's great, Percy! You'll go visit when this is all sorted?”

“Of course!” Percy says, boyishly pleased. “I'm going to bring him back here. He's a good kid, I know we can find him some decent work. He loves horses.”

“Arthur's always complaining that I make a lousy stable boy,” Merlin points out. “I'll tell him the news. He'll be happy for you and himself, both.”

Percy claps a hand to Merlin's back and, laughing, shoves him lightly in Arthur's direction. “He'll never trust his horses to anyone but you, Merlin.”

This is entirely untrue, but Merlin chuckles agreeably and heads back to the tree line. As he gets closer, he catches the same contentment on Arthur's face that he's seen since they fell back into their old routine, but this time it isn't tinged with regret or guilt. For a change, Arthur looks genuinely happy, as if the sight of two friends laughing is all he needs from the world. His pleasure at Percy's news is bright and honest, and a smile stays on his face the whole way back to main courtyard.

It's only there, when he looks up at the windows of Gwen's rooms, that Arthur's light mood turns brittle, and breaks into pieces.

The more Merlin thinks about it, the more he's sure that the rudimentary plan he'd concocted on the way back to Camelot is the only solution to their problem. It's the execution - he winces at the play on words - that poses a problem. Based on everything Merlin's heard so far - from Alator, the Druid and Kilgharrah - and the behavior of his mentor and friends (not to mention the odd conglomeration of magic users below the castle), he can see that it's all coming to a head.

He's going to have to tell Arthur about his magic.

How he's going to do this, Merlin's not sure. His heart races and his palms start to sweat at the mere thought of facing Arthur with this. Over the years, he's imagined every possible reaction: fear, hate, incredulity, wonder, pride. He's quite sure the latter two are pure, indulgent fantasy on his part. He'll count himself more than lucky if all he gets is incredulity. 

He knows that's not the way it will go, though. Incredulity might come first, but it will be swiftly followed by anger and mistrust. Merlin doesn't have to be a Seer to predict the future. He knows Arthur well enough. 

What comes after mistrust is a mystery, though. Will Arthur want to keep Merlin near, where he can be watched? Or will he cast him out, banish him as Gwen was banished for her betrayal. Will Arthur's disgust and bitterness linger, or will he let them fade away once he learns of all that Merlin's done for him, for Camelot?

Will he, in one final bid to cleanse his kingdom of traitors, order Merlin executed?

Those 'Will he's' have kept Merlin awake on many a night, pondering worst-case scenarios, making fruitless plans. Sometimes he wonders if his destiny will fall apart, and he'll end up like his father, living in a cave deep in some forest, resenting the world for moving on without him. 

Now, Arthur's reaction is only half the problem. Merlin thinks - hopes - that the revelation of his magic will give the Order what it wants: If Arthur turns him away, it will be proof that he is not under Arthur's control; if Arthur embraces him - and if the Druid is to be believed - then Arthur will show himself a fit steward of Merlin's magic. 

The deeper meaning of the Order's motivation lingers at the edges of his thoughts, too. They still haven't told Arthur what the Order really believes of him - that his hold over Emrys is sexual, and that Emrys silently endures his lustful attention. Once, Merlin would have laughed bitterly and said it wasn't the least bit true, but now... The way Arthur's been watching him, the way Elyan frowns worriedly, and Gwen - still - avoids him more often than not... Nobody's talking to Merlin, but he wonders if there might be something to the Order's vision.

Even if there's nothing on Arthur's part - even if they're all reading too much into it, and Arthur's only forgiven him for some real or imagined wrong, only glad to have his friend back - well, it's certainly true that Merlin's own feelings bind him to Arthur. There are things he would do, has done, not for destiny, but for Arthur alone, and perhaps that is enough to worry the Order. Perhaps there are lines that shouldn't be crossed, which Merlin will happily obliterate for the sake of Arthur's safety and happiness. 

How that is Arthur's fault, Merlin doesn't know. 

The foreboding tension that's been nagging at Merlin finally breaks, quite spectacularly, two mornings after Arthur's visit to the magic camp. Merlin is just serving breakfast, a jug of ale in one hand and a platter of bread, fruit and meat in the other. The sudden crash of magic startles him; food tumbles onto the table, a pear wobbling right into Arthur's lap.

Arthur jumps up, cursing, but it's not Merlin's clumsiness that's brought him to his feet. In the distance, in time with another wave of magic, a sound like thunder reverberates across the city. Arthur bolts for the door, calling for the guards, and Merlin scrambles after, caution be-damned, casting his magic before him. 

The scene it paints is gruesome. In one of the encampments beyond the walls of the city - one of the ones where no magic users had settled - men and women lie dead and dying. Orphaned children wail amidst the carnage while fires eat at tattered tent-cloth, and a tree groans before crashing to the earth. 

Merlin stumbles as the magic screeches, its balance upended, its purpose twisted. He wants to drop into a corner and heave his guts out, at the death - because of him, he already knows - and the torturous grind of elements bent against their natures. Arthur's running, though, still with no idea of what lies below, and Merlin struggles to keep up. Now, of all times, he cannot fall behind, cannot let Arthur out of his sight.

Leon meets them near the main courtyard with a brief report from the sentries posted on the ramparts, and Arthur's face goes bloodlessly grim. 

"Send for Gaius," he orders, "and take a company down there to support the tower guard. Stop traffic into and out of the lower town, but don't close the gates. I don't want people to feel as if we're locking them out."

"Gaius is down there, already," Merlin says, hoping his mentor is uninjured. "He and Alator went to the magic camp early this morning."

"Perfect," Arthur growls, heading for the courtyard. "For all we know, he's one of the casualties. Did he take his medicines with him?"

Merlin nods. "He meant to treat some children who'd fallen ill."

"You there, get us horses!" Arthur shouts at a man below them as they descend the stairs, and Leon, who's hurried ahead, looks back at him, startled.

"Sire, you can't go down there!" he protests, while the guard Arthur's called on hesitates mid-stride.

"I will not sit back and watch my people bleed to death!" Arthur snarls. "Horses, now!"

The guard gives Leon a worried glance, but runs for the stables. Leon frowns fiercely. "At least wait for an escort, sire," he pleads.

Elyan and Tristan come barreling out the doors just then, and Arthur throws an arm out. "I'll take them. Merlin, get more horses!"

Leon sketches a bow, clearly displeased, but moves away, bellowing orders at the cluster of knights and sentries that's formed nearby. As Merlin runs for the stables, he hears Elyan ask, "What happened? They say there was an explosion in the lower town."

The site of the attack, when they finally get to it, is both more and less chaotic than Merlin's senses had suggested. There are several dead, many injured, and no lack of frightened children - though none, miraculously, among the casualties. Some of the fires still burn, but most have been doused, and the tree Merlin felt falling didn't seem to have caused any further injury. 

There are people moving among the wounded, treating gashes, broken bones and burns, bandages in their hands, healing spells on their lips. Gaius and Alator are with the most serious casualties, and Arthur rides as near as he can before swinging down off his horse and demanding a report. Merlin grabs the reins from him and slides off his own mare, searching for a place to tie the animals. Tristan sends Elyan an odd look when the knight gestures that he'll take them.

"Go on, Merlin," Elyan says, no sign of - no time or place for - the subtle suspicion with which he's been watching Merlin ever since Gwen had confided in him.

Merlin gives a grateful nod, and follows Arthur into the center of the destruction. He feels the eyes of the magic users on him, expectant, demanding, even, and he knows, though old instinct insists that he hide, ignore, play dumb, that this will be the last time. Neither his conscience nor his destiny will suffer another desecration of life on his behalf.

Gaius presses Merlin into service in the middle of his report: "These three, we should take to the castle as soon as a cart is available, sire. Merlin, get more willow bark extract from my bag, and dress this man's wound." He points to a young man about Merlin's age, and waves at his bag, sitting some distance away. Merlin goes to work, half an ear on what's being said around him, murmuring to his patient as he lifts the man's head and encourages him to swallow.

Alator crouches next to him as he's cleaning a gash in the man's leg, and says softly, "We have been using healing spells to lessen the severity of the injuries."

Merlin tilts his head at the wound, meaning, _Go on, then_ , but Alator says, "I know you are capable."

"Now's not the time," Merlin mutters, and Alator, after glancing at the patient - too alert - and Arthur - too on edge - concedes with a nod. He does the spell himself, a short, low chant that cleans the wound and speeds healing. The young man gives a startled protest, and Arthur turns, concerned.

"What's the matter?" he demands.

"H-he just..." the man stutters, and trails off, as if aware of all the pitfalls that lie in accusing a man of using magic to help him while that man stands over him, possible capable of using more of it in some entirely unhelpful way.

"Merlin?" Arthur prompts, impatient.

"Alator used a healing spell to help the wound along, sire," Merlin says, torn between watching Arthur's expression, and the young man's.

The man's face goes into a contortion of worry and confusion, and what he catches of Arthur's look is disapproving. Nevertheless, Arthur says, "This man is an ally, promised to use his magic to help Camelot. You have nothing to fear from him."

"Y-yes, my lord," the man forces out, eyeing Alator with cautious gratitude. Alator ignores them both, rising to move to another of the wounded.

While Merlin bandages the wound, Arthur looks around the battered camp, eyes catching on people he clearly recognizes, and asks, "Have they all been using magic to help the wounded?"

"Those who know healing magic, sire," Gaius confirms. "Those who don't have done other things: conjured water, a cooling breeze, anything they can to help the victims be more comfortable. Some are here simply to lend a pair of hands."

Arthur frowns, but it is not so much a displeased expression, now, as a considering one. "If the guards give any trouble, you may tell them that these people have my leave to use magic in aid of the wounded." He stops, then ventures, "As do you, Gaius, if you are still so inclined."

Gaius is startled into silence for a long moment before he gives a short nod, and says, "I am, sire. Thank you." 

Arthur returns the nod and turns away, searching for someone to give him a tactical report, as if he has said nothing of consequence. Merlin can't bring himself to move, though, still on his knees, eyes tracking Arthur's retreating form. A shiver runs though him - a frisson of excitement - and spreads into his magic, rippling outward, making every witch, warlock and sorcerer look up, to him, then to Arthur. As the king traverses the camp, intent on a cluster of guards near the road, they bow to him, or curtesy, murmuring, "Sire," and "My lord," and "Thank you."

Arthur's stride slows, his confusion evident to Merlin, if to no one else. He acknowledges the words and gestures, though, even stops to say a few words to a woman helping another hobble to her tent. When he reaches the guards, Merlin knows that his first order is to repeat his permission of the magic. The guards look startled, but mutter affirmations, and Arthur carries on, either ignorant of, or willfully ignoring, this next step on the road of destiny.

It is not until the wounded have been treated, and the dead shrouded and moved away from the camp, that the purpose of the attack becomes clear. Merlin and most of the powerful magic users have known all along it's the White Order, and Arthur's suspected, but the message, when it finally comes, leaves no doubt in anyone's mind.

"'Bring us Emrys. You have two days, or the city falls," booms across the camp - across, they will soon learn, the lower town, and though every room of the citadel - in a voice like a growl, guttural, snarling, the way a wolf might sound, if wolves could talk. People shout, startle, scream in fear, fall to their knees, hold their children close. "Bring us Emrys!" echoes once more, and then there is silence, sharp, absolute, people and nature and magic shocked into stillness for an endless moment.

Merlin throws his magic after the voice, looking for a source, a direction, but there is nothing to show him where the Order might be. Only threads of a spell remain, lingering in the air, blowing into nothing under the onslaught of his search.

"I don't have him!" Arthur shouts, the first to break the silence. "I don't have the worthless bastard! He's not here!"

Merlin flinches at the epithet, and then again as all the magic users in the camp turn their eyes to him, puzzled, accusing, a few darkly amused. Arthur doesn't notice, turning round where he stands, as if he can spy out the source of the voice among the trees. He doesn't look down until a girl, not much taller than his sword, pipes up, "Yes, you do."

He blinks at her, then says, clearly trying to be gentle through his gritted teeth, "No, sweetheart, I don't. We can't find him."

The girl regards him in that way children have, that makes one feel as if the joke is on him, and says, "He's here. He came to the camp the other day."

Arthur takes two quick steps forward and crouches in front of her. She doesn't show any fear of him. "He's at your camp? Right now?"

She rolls her eyes, and waves the bag she's carrying - herbs or bandages or something - vaguely in Merlin's direction. "No, he's _here_ right now," she says, and then Alator's voice shouts _SILENCE!_ across the ether, commanding everyone who can hear it. The child startles, and falls quiet.

Arthur's looking in Merlin's direction, but Gaius is next to him, and Alator, along with the healer he'd traveled with before meeting up with Merlin, another witch, and a sorcerer whose only useful skill, that Merlin's been able to suss out, is the command of insects. There are also two men with no magic whatsoever, trying to right a tent that had fallen, but not burned. "It's one of them?" Arthur asks the girl, but she hangs her head.

"I'm not to say anymore," she tells him, and scuffs a toe in the dirt. "Sorry."

Arthur takes her free hand, brings it to his lips, and gives it a courtly kiss. "My young lady," he says, "You've said plenty. I thank you." Then he rises, spares her mother - hovering anxiously - a brief glance, and strides purposefully in the direction she'd pointed. With every step he takes, his expressions grows darker, until, by the time he reaches the scattered group, kindness is a distant memory.

"You," he hisses, jabbing a finger in Alator's direction, "will explain yourself _immediately_! Guards! Detain every man here!"

"That is not wise," Alator warns as three guards come running at the king's order. "You will accomplish nothing this way."

"Five more people have died," Arthur grates out. "Another dozen are injured. A child tells me that one of these," he gestures at where the three men are standing, white-faced and nervous, "is the one we've been looking for all along. Not, I might add, that you've been doing much actual _looking_ , as near as I can tell." He snorts, and then says, "Of course, she might have meant you. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised." 

This has to stop, Merlin realizes. It's become a farce, with Arthur as the head fool, and it has to stop right now. "Arthur," he begins, but, Arthur, as typical when he's wound up, cuts him off.

"Not now, Merlin!"

"I know who he is, Arthur," Merlin says, and that makes Arthur turn, sharp and predatory, a lion spotting its next kill.

They stare at each other, Arthur furious and expectant, Merlin actually trembling with fear, because the moment has come, and it is _nothing_ like he had hoped it might be.

"Not here, sire," Gaius murmurs, with a grave, paternal air that somehow reaches through Arthur's mounting rage. "For the sake of you both, not here."

"Then where?" Arthur snaps. "Pray tell me where?"

"Let us return to the castle, sire," Gaius offers. "None of these three men are Emrys. There is no reason to hold them."

"Is that true, Merlin?" Arthur demands, and, at Merlin's shaky nod, orders, "Release them." The guards step back, and all of the men scramble hastily away. "Who shall I detain, then, Merlin?"

Merlin tries to speak, but he can barely force breath though his mouth, let alone words. The look Arthur's giving him is right along with what he'd imagined: angry, betrayed, disappointed. Just wait, Merlin thinks, slightly hysterical, until he learns the whole truth.

Again, Gaius spares him. "Myself, Alator and Merlin will be sufficient, sire," he says, still quiet and calm, sounding now like he's advising at council rather than talking Arthur down from a precipice.

Arthur turns to Gaius, dousing him in that same mixture of fury and disappointment. He opens his mouth, poised to accuse, Merlin thinks, and then decides that the old physician has the right of it: this is not the place.

The guards bring their horses; Elyan and Percival appear while they are mounting, asking for orders, bewildered by the tension in the air.

Arthur's eyes track rapidly between the two knights, assessing. "Percival," he says, "stay here and coordinate the clean-up. Send your reports to Leon. Elyan, to horse, and with me."

Elyan nods and hurries off, catching up with the stone-silent group as they make the road back to the lower town. "Sire?" he asks. "What's the plan?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, and Elyan looks to Merlin, brows contorted into a question. Merlin shakes his head, his knuckles white on his reins, and hopes that he'll make it back to the citadel without falling off. His mare is tense and prancing in the face of his fear, but he can't stop trembling, or his pulse from pounding in his ears.

When they get to the castle - after being informed, by three separate patrols, of the growling voice in the air - Arthur leads the way to the throne room where he usually takes audience. He orders the doors shut, and nobody to enter without his leave. He walks to his throne, seems to contemplate it for a moment, but doesn't sit. Finally, he turns toward the others and asks, "Is there anyone in this room besides me who doesn't know Emrys' true identity?"

None of them speak, and Arthur seems unsurprised. "I gather, Sir Elyan, that you've know for some time? You were rather insistent in your defense of this sorcerer."

"I learned about Emrys when the ghost of the Druid possessed me, sire," Elyan says, contrition clear in his posture. 

Arthur scowls, no doubt forcefully reminded of any number of things he'd been hoping to leave in the past. "That was months ago," he snaps. "Why did you not say anything when the patrol was killed? Did the deaths of your brothers mean _nothing_ to you?"

Elyan's gaze drops to the floor. "Forgive me, my lord, but... it is a complicated matter. Emrys is... Emrys is loyal to you, more than anyone else, but he is a sorcerer. I feared that your hatred of magic would blind you to the truths of the situation."

"And just who the hell are _you_ to make such decisions for me?!" Arthur shouts, unable to hold back any longer. "Do you think being the queen's brother gives you right? You think you know better than I what this kingdom needs?"

"No, sire," Elyan murmurs, and again, "Forgive me."

"Oh yes, of course, by all means," Arthur snarls with cutting sarcasm. "We're all so good at forgiving each other, here, aren't we?"

Elyan twitches, and Merlin realizes that, just for a moment, they are talking about something else entirely. 

"If you are done raging," Alator picks up smoothly, but doesn't have the chance to finish, because Arthur's striding forward suddenly, Excalibur drawn, and grabbing him by the front of his robes.

"Is it you?" he snarls, pressing the blade to Alator's throat. "Tell me the truth, you thrice-damned bastard, is it you?"

"Arthur!" Merlin cries, putting a hand out, his magic rising up, ready to defend Alator - to defend a _sorcerer_ against his beloved king, but the tableaux has frozen, and Alator shows no fear as he answers.

"It is not I, you foolish boy, and if you treat Emrys as you are treating me, then I can only hope he forgives you. No, I know he will forgive you. That is his nature. What I hope is that your hatred does not break him. Now, when he needs you most, I hope that you do not cast him out, and ruin us all." 

Arthur glares hard at Alator, searching for deception, for mockery, for a weakness of any sort, but the warlock stares back, intent and implacable. At last Arthur unclenches his fist, takes a step back, and lowers the sword. "That just leaves two," he says, something like weariness in his voice. "Two who stood where the girl said Emrys was. Two," he turns slowly, reluctantly, to face Gaius and Merlin, standing side by side, "who've been with me for years, always steadfast, always faithful, even when they were doubted and accused. Now I find that one of them is a cowardly traitor, and the other complicit." His voice breaks, and he rasps, "Tell me why I should not cut you both down where you stand?"

"Arthur!" Gaius protests, but Merlin puts a hand on his shoulder, and he quiets.

"Leave us," Merlin says; Gaius, after gracing him with a long, searching look, steps back, and moves for the door. "Leave us," Merlin says again, and the others silently, solemnly withdraw.

Arthur lets them go, eyes on Merlin, brows drawn in something like hopelessness or despair, and this is so much worse, so much more awful than Merlin had ever imagined. He'd never truly considered that _he_ had the power to break _Arthur ___.

"Tell me," Arthur begs, red-eyed, "that it is Gaius. Tell me that it's Gaius, Merlin."

Merlin shakes his head, just once, and rasps, "I can't."

"NO!" Arthur roars, explosive in his rage. "NO! GOD DAMN YOU, NO!" He whirls away, flinging Excalibur at the wall, where it crashes with a violent clang! before clattering to the floor. "WHY AM I CURSED TO BE BETRAYED BY EVERYONE I LOVE?" He spins again, stalks at Merlin, who feels his heart break at the glistening in his king's eyes. "Are my sins truly so great?" Arthur groans. "I am worthy of neither forgiveness nor love?" He reaches Merlin, grasps him by the lapels of his coat, and asks with a sob, "Why you, Merlin? Of all people, why you?"

Merlin has never asked, but he's certain Arthur never cried for his father. Now, it seems that there _is_ a man worth Arthur Pendragon's tears.

He doesn't know what to say, tears streaking his own face, throat choked with shame and regret. He doesn't think any apology will be enough. It doesn't feel like anything will ever be enough to fix the wretchedness and misery he's brought Arthur.

"I love you," Arthur whispers, as if talking to himself, and Merlin's breath stops at the despair in the words, while his mind reels at their meaning. "I love you. I finally come to realize that it's not Guinevere without whom life is worthless, but _you_ , and now this! Of course. Why should I have expected different? All this talk of destiny... I am destined, it appears, to have no one."

"No," Merlin rasps, head shaking in determined protest. "No! Arthur, that's not it at all!" He dares to lift his hands to Arthur's shoulders, grips tightly, as if to squeeze the truth into the man. "I'm your destiny. Me. Two sides of the same coin, Arthur. I'm meant to stand with you. That's why I'm here. That's what I'm _for_."

They stare at each other across the bridge of their arms, with grief-stricken faces, mourning the loss of Arthur's faith, and Merlin just keeps talking. "I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry. I love you, please, gods, Arthur, I never meant to hurt you. It's all been for you, the magic is yours, my life is yours, my heart... I love you. Arthur, please. Please. Arthur..." and on and on, until Arthur leans forward, his head coming to rest on Merlin shoulder, and starts to sob in earnest.

Afternoon light slants into the throne room, its deep yellow tone marking the advancing hours. Shards of brightness paint the walls and ceiling above the spots where a magically burnished sword lies, reflecting the sun in odd, unnatural ways. The twin thrones are empty, the great doors pulled tightly to, and only the alternating murmur of two voices echoes off the cold, stone floor.

"I though she was everything I wanted," Arthur's saying, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees. Merlin longs to touch him, but that time is past, for now. Arthur's resolved to put himself together on his own. "And when I had her, that first night, I still believed it, right until I closed my eyes. It still smelled like her, and the cries of pleasure I could mistake for no other, but I was touching... I was touching you. When I called out, in my climax-" Arthur's throat clicks as he swallows his shame, "I called for you."

Merlin exhales shakily, and stops himself again from reaching out. "Arthur," he sighs. "Oh, Arthur."

Arthur jerks his head once, as if rejecting Merlin's sympathy, and continues. "I felt mortified, and so did she - and betrayed, too, rightly so. How could I have? I swore to her that I'd never touched you, that you had no idea of my desire, and... she believed me, mostly, but she lived in fear, too. I'd thrown her away once, already, for one kiss with another man, and here I was, exposed in my utter hypocrisy, and the object of my attraction walking in the next day, oblivious, acting as if there were nothing wrong."

Merlin remembers that day vividly. He'd been hungover, having tried to drown his grief, but still better off than any of the other servants - even George - and so tasked to bring breakfast to the newly wed couple. He'd knocked with one foot, his hands weighed down with an overflowing tray, used a silent bit of magic to release the latch when summoned, and walked in to watch his dear friends' face fall in dismay. Gwen had turned her head, fiddling with the lace on her dressing gown, and Arthur had been brusque, waving the tray to the table and Merlin out the door with barely a word. That had been the start of the rift between them, one that had only gotten wider the harder Merlin tried to bridge it.

"The closer you tried to get," Arthur says with regret, "the less Guinevere believed that you were innocent of the affair."

"I couldn't understand what I'd done wrong," Merlin remembers - oh, how he remembers. "I asked you to tell me, and I asked Gwen, but neither of you would say. I felt like I was losing everything. Not just my friends, but my place in Camelot. All that was left was this... hollow destiny."

Something like an ironic sigh passes between them, and then Arthur takes up the story again. "When you left, after the patrol was butchered," -They haven't even begun to talk about Emrys yet- "I finally confronted Guinevere. We must have spent half an afternoon screaming accusations at one another, finding blame, venting our frustrations. You would think it would have cleared the air. I must have begged forgiveness a hundred times, for myself and for you, though you'd done nothing wrong, but she would have none of it, because... she said I still called for you in my sleep. And, and she said when we lay together, it never felt as free as the first time. She knew I was holding back, afraid that I'd forget myself and call your name again. When I told her, finally, that I could not continue to treat you as I had - that I needed you in my life again - she said that she could not trust me to keep my desires reined in. She took her pillow and her mother's quilt off our bed, and said she would not return to it until she was certain that I could be trusted. Or until," here, Arthur's voice breaks with regret, "she learned to live with the pain."

Merlin doesn't know what to say. For all the wisdom that has come to him over the years, whether through bitter experience or uncanny knowledge, he has no idea what words might possibly repair what has been damaged. He gives in, at last, to his urge to touch, and Arthur allows a hand to wrap briefly around his own. 

"I was so happy to have you back," Arthur says, at length. "I was so happy, I found myself forgetting about this bloody Emrys thing, here and there." Now he looks at Merlin, and finally demands his own answers. "But I won't be forgetting anymore, will I?"

Merlin takes a breath, and begins: "I've lived with the fear of discovery for so long that it's become part of me. It's burrowed into my heart so deeply that the very idea of telling anyone - telling you - about my magic chilled my very blood. You called me coward, earlier, and you were not wrong. I've had opportunity to tell you before this. I should have told you years ago." At the disappointment and betrayal that start to creep once more across Arthur's face, he adds hastily, "It wasn't you that I didn't trust, Arthur. I haven't thought that you'd have me executed for years. It was... I feared what you would think of me. I feared that you would hate me, or send me away, and I could bear neither the loss of your regard nor the chance that my distance would end in your death. I could not leave you, Arthur. I will not leave you. Please believe me. I love you, and I will not leave you." You will leave me, in the end, he does not say. 

Arthur contemplates him as he talks, listens to Merlin's explanation about the first time he'd been called Emrys, and how long it had taken him to learn what the really meant. If he guesses that Merlin is leaving out a specific part - the part he will not think about until the mortality of his loved ones is laid bare before him, because a small bit of him will always be cowardly, now - then he does not let on. He asks questions, snaps in renewed anger, mocks and mourns in equal part at the highlights of Merlin's years of subterfuge. Arthur listens, and thinks, and says, as night is falling, "That's not even a fraction of the whole, is it?"

Merlin ducks his head. "No. Those are all the important parts - the biggest mistakes I've made. Whatever those people out there tell you about how great Emrys is supposed to be... Well, now you know. I'm not the answer to all their problems. I'm just as flawed as anyone else."

Arthur is silent for a while, and then says, "I yelled at you once, for presuming that you understood the burden I carried in regards to the well-being of this kingdom. I'm sorry for that. You know exactly what it's like, don't you?"

"In some ways," Merlin says. "In others, I'm only beginning to understand. For a long time, my ultimate responsibility was to you. Now, there's so much more."

Arthur shakes his head. "Merlin, tell me, do you have any _happy_ magic stories?"

Merlin has to think about it for a time. "Some. I mean, I guess the ones where we retake Camelot are happy, mostly, except for the bits where people die." He shrugs. "I suppose it's a question of how you look at them."

"Well, as long as you can see that," Arthur says. Merlin makes to protest that of course he can see that, but thinks back to everything he's said and realizes that Arthur's got a point. His tale sounds as gloomy as... well, as gloomy as the room's getting. The sun is little more than a memory over the horizon, and Merlin has to squint to get a decent look at Arthur's face.

"Would you..." he ventures, and then, more strongly, "Would you like to see some magic?"

Arthur startles, as if he's forgotten that the whole discussion is more than academic. "What sort of magic?" he asks, wary.

"Just a bit of light," Merlin assures, "or I'm likely to trip over my own feet on the way out of here."

"You'll do that anyway, Merlin," Arthur says, and, "Yes, all right."

Merlin hasn't bothered saying the words to the spell for years, and he doesn't now. He just opens up his palm, and pushes his magic out into a ball of cool, blue light.

"Oh!" Arthur gasps. "It was you!"

"What was me?" Merlin looks between the light and Arthur, a little worried about what else he might be to blame for.

"In the cave, when I was looking for the Morteus flower," Arthur says, uncurling from his huddle and rising up to stretch his arms, "there was a light that helped me find my way. Without it I probably would have fallen."

Merlin rises too, rubbing his numb arse, and muses, "Gwen did say I was muttering in my sleep. Gaius told me later that it sounded like a spell for distant light, or something."

Gwen's name comes out casually, but then he remembers, and feels shame and sadness rear their heads again. Arthur's faring no better, silent as they walk to the door, until, before he goes to pull it open, he turns and says, voice deep with conviction, "You're no coward, Merlin. Don't ever think that. No, look at me," when Merlin hums and turns away. "You are not a coward, Merlin. You may have lived with fear, but no coward could have accomplished what you have. You humble me."

"Arthur," Merlin protests, but Arthur waves him down.

"Don't argue with me, I'm the king."

"Yes, sire," Merlin agrees blandly. "Of course, sire."

The ease between them will return readily, Merlin can see. When they pull open the great doors, Gwaine topples at their feet, a horn to his ear - caught in the act of eavesdropping - and Merlin lets himself laugh. Beside him, Arthur does, too.

"The truth, now," Arthur demands of Alator after they've eaten a brief supper, and gathered in Gaius' chambers. It's only the five of them - Arthur, Alator, Merlin, Gaius and Elyan - because Arthur wants to know all the details before he brings in the rest of the knights and council. Nobody else has been told yet that Merlin is Emrys. "What does the White Order want with Merlin?"

"There is little more to tell, than what I have already told you, " Alator says. "The Order believes Merlin to be in thrall to you. It is the nature of the bond that we have avoided mentioning."

"And?" Arthur draws out, his newfound tolerance for magic and warlocks clearly not extending to this one in particular.

"They think the bond is, um, sexual in nature," Merlin says, wincing. He doesn't look over at Elyan, who, he thinks, knows far more about the king's personal business than he really should, queen's brother or not. It is fortunate that he doesn't have the same level of detail about Merlin's feelings, because he'd probably be far less kindly disposed to either of them, in that case, than he is now.

Arthur's reaction is as expected: he startles, blushes, rolls his eyes, then claps a hand to his forehead and drags it down over his face. "Of course they do," he groans.

"So what do we do?" Elyan asks, as if to forestall any speculation on the topic.

"I feel that, since Emrys' identity has been disclosed," Alator says, "Merlin and the king must confront the Order together, and prove that Arthur is the best possible steward of Merlin's magic."

"And how the hell are we supposed to prove that?" Arthur shoots back.

"Still working on that bit," Merlin says, apologetic. "I, ah, I figured that if you banished me after I revealed my magic, it would prove I wasn't actually in your, er, thrall, and if you didn't... Yeah, still working on that bit."

"Perfect," Arthur mutters. "Is there no way to prove-"

"Your coupling, or lack thereof?" Alator asks, clearly amused by the way _everyone_ around the table coughs or blushes, "yes. Your feelings, no. Your actions must speak for you."

"I'd just like to point out," Merlin says, backtracking to what he feels is a very important detail, "that there is no way in hell I'm letting Arthur anywhere near the Order."

"Excuse me?" Arthur draws himself up, incredulously indignant. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?"

"I'm _Emrys_ ," Merlin says pointedly. "Your magical _guardian_."

"Right," Arthur says, smirking. "Still the king."

"Not if you're dead!" Merlin snaps.

"Maybe the dragon will have an idea?" Elyan cuts into what might otherwise have turned into a colorful row.

"The dragon?" Arthur echoes, and then, "Oh, yes, the _dragon_." He is, Merlin knows, still not best pleased about the dragon - dragons - roaming loose in Camelot.

"He might," Merlin allows. "I could call him."

"How long will it take him to get here?" Arthur asks.

"Oh, a few minutes, probably," Merlin says with a shrug.

"Magic," Arthur huffs. 

"I should add to this discussion something that was made clear to me repeatedly when I went to visit the magic users this afternoon," Alator puts in. The warlock, after assuring everyone that Merlin and Arthur were not going to harm each other, had foregone the throne room drama in favor of searching out potential allies below the town. "Everyone I spoke to is against Emrys being handed over to the Order. That is little surprise to me. What I did find surprising, though encouraging, is that most of the people in the camp are willing and ready to stand against the Order, when the next attack comes. Already, wards have been set and watches posted." He pauses, and shrugs. "Either they are not entirely cognizant of the danger posed by the Order, or-"

"They are tired of standing around doing nothing," Merlin finishes. "You yourself told me that people were ready for action."

"I did not expect quite this level of dedication," Alator replies. "Talk is one thing, action another. They have faith in you, Emrys, and through Arthur's acceptance of magic so close to the city, they begin to believe in the future that you two will bring."

"They're not trained soldiers," Arthur protests. "I won't have them standing as an army."

"There are many battle-trained sorcerers among them, sire," Gaius counters. "And," he slants a disapproving look at Alator, "they do understand that the Order is both dangerous and powerful. Nobody who felt the magic from this morning could think otherwise. The truth is that they, with Merlin at their head, are your best defense against further attack."

"Not that we know what that attack will be," Merlin mutters. "Two days - one day, now, really - and then what?"

"I imagine that we do not really want to know," Alator points out.

"Where do they want us to bring you, anyway?" Arthur asks. "They haven't exactly been clear on that score."

"Anywhere in the woods will be good enough," Merlin says. "When my magic is unconstrained, they can sense me."

"Do they know you're here now, then?" Arthur asks, worry lacing his tone.

"Yes," Merlin confirms. "I let my magic loose this morning, and never reeled it back in."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Arthur's worry transforms into confusion.

"Means I don't have to work so hard to cast spells," Merlin says, "and my reaction time is faster. I can sense other magic, too, and the energies of life - I can tell you what's going on in the magic camp right now, or in the guard towers outside the castle."

"That's... useful." Arthur muses. 

"But it doesn't tell us what to do about the Order," Elyan reminds them, drawing the conversation back on track. 

"The reason I mentioned the magic users' willingness to stand and fight," Alator says, "is that it may be the way in which we convince the Order that Merlin is both acting of his own will, and under good stewardship in Camelot."

"You make me sound like a parcel of land," Merlin grumbles, sore at the idea that he's under 'stewardship' of any sort, like a piece of property or an underage ward.

Arthur is mulling over Alator's words. "The other sorcerers wouldn't follow him if they thought he was strictly under my control, or me if they thought I would do them harm."

"Indeed," Alator agrees.

"Tenuous at best," Elyan challenges. "How will the Order know that the magic users aren't being deceived?"

"Those who will not stand with us act out of fear, or to protect their families," Alator says, "not because they disagree with the cause."

"And how will _that_ be made plain?" Elyan presses.

"In the fact that we don't get stabbed in the back, or abandoned to our fate, when the Order comes calling," Arthur explains.

"That is not a foolproof plan," Elyan says.

"I never promised anything foolproof," Alator replies blandly.

"So that's it, then?" Merlin asks, in wholehearted agreement with Elyan's skepticism. "We make a stand and hope they back down?"

"That is it," Alator agrees.

Arthur nods. "That's it."

Gaius looks worried, and Elyan shakes his head in despair.

"I'm calling the dragon," Merlin says. "He's got to have something better than this."

Kilgharrah, as it turns out, thinks it is a solid plan.

"You're insane," Merlin sighs. "We're all insane."

"Some of us more so than others," the Great Dragon agrees. Merlin's not sure what sense to take that in.

Arthur is standing at the edge of the clearing, staring up at the great, scaly head with a hint of trepidation. Despite Kilgharrah's eager greeting and apology for attacking the city, he is not inclined to trust the dragon just yet.

Merlin can't blame him. Kilgharrah is more about frustration and fear than trust and confidence, until you get to know him. "Maybe Aithusa will like you," he says, and, prepared to be shot down one more time, calls, **Aithusa! Come meet the Once and Future King, little one.**

Aithusa's head snaps around, his face a study in reptilian anger, but, as he takes in Arthur, standing at Merlin's side, his expression turns curious. He sniffs the air, chirps to himself, and, still avoiding Merlin as best he can, scampers over. He sits up on his hind legs, contemplates Arthur for a moment, and asks, "King?"

"Yes," Arthur breathes out, startled, "I'm the king of Camelot."

"King of _Albion_ ," Aithusa corrects, like a three-year-old given the wrong flavor of biscuit. 

"So they tell me," Arthur says, shrugging a little. He looks to be growing enchanted by the little dragon, though, despite himself.

Aithusa sniffs the air again, then shuffles over a bit - so that he's closer to Merlin - and takes another searching whiff. "Happy?" he asks Arthur, seeming puzzled. 

Arthur quirks an eyebrow at Merlin, who shrugs. "I have no idea what he means by that."

Aithusa gives Merlin a disdainful glare, and clarifies, "King, happy with Emrys?"

"Yes," Arthur says without hesitation, "I'm happy with Emrys. It would have been awful if he'd turned out to be someone else." He blinks, realizes what he's said, and gives an embarrassed cough. "Erm..."

"Always knew you liked me," Merlin says smugly, even though he hadn't, not like that - not in the way he's trying very hard not to ponder right now, because they are _busy_ with _important things_ and this is not the time to contemplate his love life, especially because poor Gwen is still tied up in the middle of it. 

"Yes," Arthur says, half bashful, half wistful, "I like you very much."

Aithusa sniffs again, and frowns. "Sad now?"

"Is he smelling out our-?" Arthur starts to ask, and cuts himself off with an embarrassed glance at Kilgharrah.

"If he can smell it, what makes you think I can't?" Kilgharrah points out, amused. Then he shakes his head. "Oh, Merlin, you never do anything by halves, do you?"

Merlin shrugs. "I can't control my heart," he says.

"No," Kilgharrah agrees, "and goddess help us if you ever try."

"Emrys," Aithusa murmurs. "Emrys."

Merlin waits, but no more is forthcoming. Still, he counts the night as a win. Aithusa has stopped ignoring him, and likes Arthur. Relations with the little dragon, Merlin hopes, can only go up from there.

When the council and the Round Table knights congregate in the throne room the next morning - with Gwen in reluctant attendance, by Arthur's orders - speculation is rife. Everyone knows that Arthur had a confrontation with Alator and the others, and that Merlin was ensconced here with him for the whole rest of the day. It is also known, thanks to some rather talkative guards, that Merlin knows the identity of Emrys. The rest is pure conjecture on everyone's part, though some hit more accurately in their wild guessing than others. Still, Merlin is quite certain, as he eavesdrops on the crowd with magic from some distance away, that they are not quite prepared for truth.

"Ready?" Arthur asks, stroking Excalibur's hilt with his thumb repeatedly, as if in apology for having thrown the sword in anger.

"No," Merlin says brightly, "but it's not as if I have a choice, is it?"

"None whatsoever," Arthur agrees, and tugs him into the room. 

The assembly comes to order as Arthur reaches the thrones. He ignores them for a moment, offering his hand to Gwen, sitting stiff and distant to the left. She gives him her own, a small - false, to those who know her - smile on her face. He lifts it to his lips and gives it a gentle kiss; she and Merlin are the only ones who know that afterward, he murmurs, "I am so sorry, Guinevere." 

Merlin will learn, eventually, that Arthur has performed some variation of this ritual every time he sees his queen, in public and private, and that it has ceased to have the sort of meaning to her that he hopes it might.

Arthur straightens, turns to the men standing before him, and says, without preamble, "Yesterday, I learned the identity of Emrys. Today, we prepare. Tomorrow, we end this."

The crowd erupts into the expected froth of speculative looks and muttering. Arthur lets them carry on for a moment, then continues, "As the priest Alator has tried to impress upon me, Emrys is an ally of Camelot. I could, in fact, not ask for a more loyal man to hold the title. Yes, Emrys is a title, one handed down from prophecy, kept alive in the tales of magic users throughout Albion. Emrys is said to be the most powerful warlock who will ever walk these lands." This brings another flurry of muttering, but Arthur presses on. "The White Order, the sorcerers who killed our patrol, who killed innocent people camping below the lower town... they seek to take Emrys from his rightful place. They seek to destroy that which we, in Camelot, are trying to build. They, in their misguided arrogance, think they know what is best for us, and for this man, who has dedicated his life to seeing this kingdom come into its proper glory." He pauses, while the crowd teeters, waiting for his next words, and Merlin can actually see as Arthur changes his mind, changes what he is going to reveal. He is profoundly grateful.

"Today, we make ready to face the White Order, but only a handful of our knights will ride forth. The larger preparations are already in place. The magic users below the lower town have offered their alliance, and it is their power - and their faith in Camelot - that we must use to face our present enemy." 

The room erupts, few bothering to murmur, as cries of "Sorcery!" and "Witchcraft!" reverberate through the crowd. The Round Table knights edge toward Arthur, as if to protect him from the assembly, or himself. Elyan makes the first overt move, standing in front of Gwen, and Merlin echoes his position in front of Arthur. Alator moves to stand beside him, and Gaius joins Elyan. Gwaine assess the line, then slips between Merlin and Elyan with a ready grin. "It's one of you, isn't it?" he asks, glancing from one of them to the other.

"Silence!" Arthur yells, and the crowd settles somewhat, though the older councilors, Kay and Bedivere in particular, are urgently trying to get Arthur's attention. Leon and Percival find their places in the line, Tristan tags on to Gwen's end like an afterthought, and Merlin's about to send a thunderclap into the air, to get everyone to listen, when Arthur bellows, "ENOUGH!"

The room falls silent, finally, though a tension ripples through it that the dullest fool would be loathe to disturb. 

"Are we quite finished, gentlemen?" Arthur asks rhetorically. "I realize that this seems a sudden move to you, an alliance with magic users, but the simple fact is that we cannot win without them. I will not give up Emrys to the Order. Without him, this kingdom would have fallen years ago, and I would be long dead. I could send every knight and footman in the castle against these sorcerers, and be lucky to find any of them, let alone kill them. To fight magic, we must use magic, and should any of you want to trot out my father's arguments, to whit, that magic is evil and corrupts, I would remind you that for centuries before the Purge, magic users lived in harmony with the rest of us. In many kingdoms of Albion, the Old Religion rises - magic rises - and those kingdoms prosper, while Camelot is attacked again and again in retribution for our crimes. If we do not change, we will fall."

"Are you certain, sire, that we have not fallen already?" someone asks from the back of the crowd, no doubt hoping to remain anonymous.

"I am certain, Lord Winnard, that your accusation could be considered treasonous," Arthur retorts, "were the laws of Camelot different than they are." There is some judicious shuffling away from the man, and Arthur asks, "Does anybody have an _intelligent_ question?"

"Forgive me, sire," Kay speaks up, eyeing Merlin and the others warily, "but Lord Winnard's question, if tactless, is a legitimate one. How do we know that you are not overcome by magic."

"Oh, brother," Gwaine groans, rolling his eyes.

"Lord Kay, Lord Bedivere," Arthur says, conceding the point with a nod, "you are welcome to join in the planning council that will follow immediately after this assembly disperses. You can pass on what you learn, and judge for yourselves."

"And how will those who do not attend assure themselves that _we_ are not influenced by magic?" Kay asks.

"My Lord Kay," Arthur grinds out, "if _learned_ men such as these cannot distinguish between truth and fiction when they speak to those they have know for decades, then there is no hope for any of us." That shuts up the lot of them, and Arthur says, "If that is all, you are dismissed. Lord Kay, Lord Bedivere, if you would join us?"

The councilors file out with many a wary, backward glance, and Arthur signals for the doors to be closed behind the last straggler. "God in heaven," he groans, "it's like talking to children."

"It's worse than talking to children," Gwaine says, and also, "Hey, if you've been overcome by the Old Ways, aren't you supposed to say 'gods above?'"

"Shut up, Gwaine," Arthur says, and this lowbrow bantering seems to put Percival, at least, at ease. Leon, Kay and Bedivere still look concerned, though, and Gwen has risen from her throne to join Elyan.

"Sire," Leon starts out, trying for a reasonable tone, "it does sound suspicious, this sudden turn-about."

"Sudden?" Arthur asks. "When's the last time this kingdom executed a sorcerer, Leon? Do not the Druids roam these lands freely? Did I not entreat a powerful sorcerer," he nods at Alator, "to help us out of this mess, and promise him safe passage so long as he abides by our terms?"

"I grant you these things, sire," Leon says, "but from one sorcerer to a magical army is, well, something of a drastic shift. And this Emrys, whom you cursed but yesterday, is suddenly your dearest ally. It sits oddly, Arthur." 

"I know it does, Leon," Arthur allows, "but for the first, we have no choice, and for the second... It turns out I've been cursing Emrys all along, just for different things, and all along he has been my dearest friend."

Merlin ducks his head at that, unable to hide his blush, and Gwaine crows, "Ha! I knew it!"

"Knew what?" Leon growls. "Do enlighten us, Sir Gwaine."

"I know who Emrys is," Gwaine sing-songs gleefully. "I know who Emrys is!"

Kay looks at Gwaine, then glances around at the rest of the little council. "He is here, isn't he?" he asks. "That is why you are so sure of him, sire. He is one already known to you."

"He is," Arthur says, "and though I admit to finding it somewhat amusing, keeping you all in suspense, you must know his identity before we can proceed further." He looks at Merlin, and continues, "I meant to reveal him at the larger council, but I know how most of those men still feel about common-folk and servants. Their whispers are not as quiet as they might hope." Kay and Bedivere exchange a rueful glance, then follow Arthur's gaze, and exchange another, disbelieving one. "Go on then, Merlin," Arthur concludes, "show us something of magic."

"Really, Arthur," Merlin protests, even as he lets the magic build around him, "I'm not a jester, to perform at your command."

"But you've passed so well for one these many years," Arthur returns with a wicked smirk.

Just for that, Merlin blows the first tiny whirlwind through Arthur's hair. Arthur yelps and ducks, but it is already heading for Gwaine, who lets it chase him like a puppy. A second, Merlin sends at Alator, who rolls his eyes dismissively, and a third at Percival, who takes a swipe at it with his foot; it undoes his bootlace.

"This isn't very..." Arthur begins, but immediately the whirlwinds grow in size, ranging out to the edges of the room, spawning sisters, then merging, and spawning again. They begin to howl in earnest - though the guards outside will hear not a thing - and whip the hangings off the walls. Gwen squeaks and presses closer to Elyan, who whispers reassurances. In short order, there is only one whirlwind, encompassing the whole of the room, with them at the center; it tugs at hair and clothing, draws in tighter and tighter, a black, howling maelstrom-

-that suddenly quits. Hangings fall to the floor, hair and clothing settled askew; then all rights itself, floating and tugging and curling into place. Percival's bootlace, with a flick of Merlin's finger, reties itself. The room falls perfectly silent.

"...impressive," Arthur coughs. 

"Oh, no, they did not feel that _at all_ ," Alator snaps out. "Perhaps you would like to give them direction on how to get up here, as well?"

"They won't come today," Merlin says, and somehow knows that it's the truth. The Order, he think, has a flare for the dramatic, and there is nothing dramatic about receiving one's prize so long before a deadline.

"Merlin..." Gwen says, and doesn't seem to know how to go on.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Merlin offers. "I thought it was safer, if nobody knew."

"Could have told me, mate," Gwaine says kindly. "I wouldn't have cared."

"I know," Merlin replies, "but I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Yet they did, anyway," Bedivere points out. "Ten are dead. Five of those, and a host of injuries, we could have prevented, if you had come forward sooner."

"The matter is not so simple as that," Arthur says, speaking to them all. "Merlin's purpose was written centuries ago, if the oral histories are to be believed, and he could not hand himself over to achieve a short-term gain. Yes, missteps were made, and mistakes, but I would not have made the choices I did if he had come forward sooner. The people who step up to defend us would have come, found Emrys gone, and scattered. The future of this kingdom, of all our people, might have been forfeit. Do not think, my lords," he finishes gravely, "that Merlin has made his own choices lightly. As I speak for Camelot, he speaks for magic. Our burdens are not insignificant."

That makes the lords, and everyone, look at Merlin anew. He meets their gazes steadily, and knows, by confusion in their eyes, that where they expect a bumbling servant stands a warlock, a man self-assured, determined, powerful. 

It is, he thinks, his first true moment as Emrys. 

There are few real preparations to be made. The magic camp has fortified itself well, though the people ask for Merlin's help - openly, eagerly - as he, Arthur and Alator traverse the grounds, inspecting wards and traps. They bow to Merlin, greet him aloud, encourage him. _We stand with you, Ermys._ "We stand with Camelot." It would be a heady feeling, such recognition, and Arthur pacing steadily beside him, if Merlin weren't so utterly terrified of failure.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he whispers when they reach one edge of the camp, and Alator nods his satisfaction at the wards there.

"Deep breath, Merlin, and look determined," Arthur advises. "You can wait to be ill in the stables."

Arthur's advice is helpful enough, and Merlin survives the trip with his lunch still in his stomach. "Rule one, never eat before a battle," he groans as they settle in Arthur's rooms, just the two of them, with a tray of cold meats and fruit before supper.

"Rule one," Arthur corrects, " _always_ eat before a battle. You're no good to anyone if you faint from hunger."

Merlin groans, eyes the tray with mistrust, and settles for a goblet of wine. 

They sit in silence for a long time, more at ease with one another than they have been since before Arthur's wedding. Merlin sips his wine, and eventually picks at some chicken. Arthur eats an apple, rifles through some old reports, eats another.

"What shall I do about Guinevere?" he asks suddenly, picking up a third apple, rubbing it on his sleeve, and putting it down again. "What shall I do about you?"

Merlin says nothing, just toys with his goblet, until Arthur prompts, "Merlin?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Arthur," he replies honestly. "I know what I want. I know what Gwen wants. I know that neither of us can have our wish without the other being hurt." He sighs, and feels the sudden need to apologize. "I feel like it would be easier for you, if my own desires weren't in the way. If you only had one choice."

"Do I have more than one choice, though?" Arthur ponders, not seeming to expect an answer to this, at least. "I married Guinevere. I gave my vows. The bond is consummated. That I should want... The choice has been made."

"There's your answer, then," Merlin says, and tries very, very hard not to cry. He does not succeed: the room turns blurry, and Arthur's crouching by his chair suddenly, wiping wetness from his cheeks. The brush of Arthur's fingers against his skin is shocking, makes him gasp a reluctant protest. Arthur twines those fingers through Merlin's own, instead, and for the second time in as many days, both of them weep.

That is how Gwen finds them, a short while later. She must have knocked on the connecting door, and, hearing no answer, pushed it open, entered to see this bizarre sight, her husband and his servant with tear-stained faces, not allowing themselves to get closer, not able to let each other go. 

The first that Merlin is aware of her is when she brushes a hand through his hair, murmuring, "Oh, Merlin. Arthur. My poor boys." Her other hand cradles Arthur's head; his face is buried in the fine fabric the drapes her hip. 

"I'm sorry," Merlin croaks weakly. "I'll go." He makes to get up, but Gwen's fingers tighten in his hair, and Arthur's grip shifts to wrap his hand possessively. 

"Stay, Merlin," Gwen says. "Stay here. None of us should be alone, tonight."

Merlin looks up, giving her a watery smile, and lets himself drift away.

Dawn finds three forms tucked together atop the covers of Arthur Pendragon's bed. Arthur himself lies in the middle, on his side, Gwen's small frame tucked to his chest. His right hand rests beneath a pillow, propping her head so that it lies close to his, his nose buried in her hair. His left hand trails behind him, splayed possessively against the juncture of Merlin's thigh and hip, and even in his sleep, he does not let slack his hold. He lies back to back with Merlin, as they will stand, in the future, in battle, pressed together from shoulder to hip, legs intertwined oddly, no way to wedge them apart. Every time Merlin shifts, as if unsure, Arthur's hand pulls him firmly into place. 

George will come soon, and wake them, remind them that a confrontation’s to be had, perhaps a battle fought, and they must be up, to the council chamber, to the armoury, to pace the corridors and wait, and wonder, and pray to every god and goddess that if it goes well, sacrifices can be made, nights spent alone, pride swallowed, if only there are three of them at the end of this: If only there is still a conflict of the heart to struggle with, instead of a body to burn. Or worse, two.

Dawn finds a kingdom poised on the brink of new beginnings, and when Merlin looks back, in the years to come, wondering where it all went right and wrong, his magic will often bring him back to this.

-end-


End file.
